Flames out of Ashes
by VirgCoup
Summary: Four years after the Battle of Five Armies, Dwalin is still shattered by the loss of his friends and channels his rage into defeating the last of Erebor's foes. When he meets a healer named Lív, he finds there may yet be a spark of life left in his heart after all.
1. Chapter 1

The clash of iron meeting iron rang out on the northern slopes of the Lonely Mountain as orcs and dwarves fell upon each other in battle. Orcs had outnumbered the dwarves at the outset of the skirmish but were losing their advantage as the fight wore on. Clad in tough mail, the stout dwarves bore the finest weapons to be crafted from Erebor's forges. The orcs with their crude mail and arms were no match for the dwarves, but they fought all the harder in the knowledge of their defeat.

One dwarf strode through the fray, undaunted by the creatures' howls and battle cries. He bore two mighty axes and swung them in great arcs, cleaving orc flesh with each pass. Orcs possessed of any sense fled when they saw the wrath in Dwalin's eyes. His foes were right to flee, for he fought with single-minded purpose and would not stop until the last of his enemies had fallen, preferably by his own hand. With every sweep of his axe, the words that fueled his battle rage repeated in his mind.

 _Thorin. Fíli. Kíli._

His revenge would be spent in orc blood.

#

All through Erebor's healing rooms were the sounds of groaning dwarves, the low murmurs of the healers, and the acrid stench of sweat and blood. Thirty cots in the infirmary were filled with the injured, while more soldiers milled about, bleeding where they stood as they waited their turn to be tended. Every healer in the halls was present that evening, working desperately to mend and soothe.

Lív examined a young dwarf whose shoulder had received a terrible blow from an orc mace, leaving his flesh flayed. It was far from the worst wound she had seen in her forty years as a healer, but the glint of white bone peeking through the lad's jagged flesh still made her stomach creep. Such sights were not easy to grow accustomed to, despite their recent increase.

Four years after the retaking of Erebor, orcs had once again strengthened their numbers. While rumor had it that most of the surviving creatures had fled south, a small faction had regrouped in the Grey Mountains just to the north. Occasionally these orcs banded together to strike against Erebor's outermost watchtowers. It was the defense of just such a strike that led to the wounded Lív now tended.

Another healer, Vestri, joined her as she assessed the injured dwarf's shoulder. "He is lucky the bones are sound, but it will be some weeks before he can leave the healing rooms," Lív said as she mopped at the thick blood.

"What is your name?" she asked the male whose shoulder had been laid bare.

"Búri." The young dwarf groaned and turned his wide eyes up to her. "I'm to be married..." He bit back a scream as Vestri began cleaning the open wound. Blood, dirt, and herb-infused water swirled together as they drained into a waiting basin.

"And so you shall be," she told him. "Though you might not be ready to carry your new bride over the threshold." She smiled down at him and he was apparently relieved by her assurances. He nodded as best he could, though his face still contorted in pain. He had already been given the safe maximum dosage of pain relief - he would have to suffer through the closing and bandaging of his shoulder. It would be unpleasant, but Lív preferred he endure it rather than lose consciousness.

After preparing a salve to further cleanse the injury and stave off disease, she packed the mixture into his wound. He gritted his teeth and tried not to thrash, but Vestri had to hold him down for the worst of it.

"What is your beloved's name?" Lív asked him. Such tactics of distraction often didn't work when a patient's pain was this great, but sometimes it was enough simply to direct their minds to something other than the agony in their bodies.

"Eir." He gasped as she worked her needle through his flesh. That he could feel it at all was a promising sign.

"I'm sure she's lovely," Lív said out of habit. Weren't all betrothed wives lovely?

"Her heart sees mine," he managed to say between groans.

Such a beautiful sentiment from one so young. "You're very lucky."

He nodded, but it was clear he had reached the edge of what he could tolerate in the treatment of his injury. He was doubly lucky, then, for she had finished closing it. Perhaps the distraction had helped after all. She left Vestri to wrap his shoulder while she saw to those who remained.

Moving slowly among the wounded, she assessed injuries and assigned available cots based on severity. It had been the better part of three hours since the injured first began limping into the healing rooms and the worst cases had already been tended. The few dwarves left standing now were minimally wounded, but they would still need to be treated as quickly as possible. She had not had time yet to ask how many warriors had been involved in the army's response. Had all been wounded, or was this a small fraction of those who had set out from the Mountain? No word of either the orc attack or the subsequent defense had reached Lív. She was not privy to the doings of warriors except when it led them to her care.

As she scanned the room, she saw the Captain of Erebor standing like a small mountain himself, an imposing mass of muscle and strength. He, too, was keeping a close eye on the state of his warriors. Bristling with weapons, he seemed to take in everything around him at a single glance. He would know whether Lív should expect another wave of wounded, so she made her way over to him. At her approach, he turned his hard gaze on her. She was no stranger to tending tough warriors, but he was quite a bit taller than she, and, in combination with his breadth and look of menace, was somewhat startling to behold at such close range.

"Captain Dwalin," she said with a slight bow, "are these the last of the injured?"

"Aye," came his gruff response.

That was a relief for all involved. "Were you a very large force that set out?"

"Aye."

A conversationalist. Excellent. "A few of your warriors will need to remain here for several days while they recover."

No response. He just watched her with a blank look on his face. She might have thought he was simply too weary from battle to engage her in conversation, but she had observed Captain Dwalin enough in the past few years to know this was his usual disposition. He stared at her so long and with such an unemotional expression, she finally averted her gaze.

"I thought you would like to know how they - you're bleeding!" His right trouser leg was coated in blood and red rivulets stood out on the fur lining of his boot. "Let's get you to a cot so I can have a look." She gestured for him to follow her but he made no move to do so.

"No." His voice was a defiant rumble.

"No? You're injured."

"It's nothing." He remained where he was but turned his face away from her as though she, too, were nothing.

Although rankled, Lív was not about to back down. It was no stubborn dwarf's place to refuse treatment by a healer. Even a small wound could prove problematic, surely he must know that. "You may be in charge on the battlefield, but in here, I am in charge. This injury requires attention."

Avoiding her gaze as though she were unworthy of his attention, Dwalin merely blinked slowly, dismissing her. She felt the sting of his silent insult as vividly as if he had called her a name. Never had she been treated in such a manner in the healing rooms. Nettled by his incivility, she took him by the forearm, making the bizarre metal contraption he wore over his hand clatter. His bare skin was hot against hers and he turned his face sharply to look her in the eye. His grey eyes reflected his own sudden anger, but she was not daunted.

"Come. Now." She barely opened her mouth to speak the terse commands. It occurred to her he might resist and she would be forced to actually try to move him, a thing she was certain she could not do. She was just angry enough to try, but the ensuing humiliation would be unlikely to improve her mood. However, it seemed her firm grasp was enough of a shock to get him to comply, for he followed her to an empty cot.

He stood by it, simply looking down at her with those impassive eyes. Mahal, he was exhausting. Was he really going to fight her every step of the way? No wonder he was captain of all of Erebor's armies - the dwarf was an expert at turning everything into a fight. Clearly he was used to winning.

"Sit." She nodded towards the cot, her left hand still holding tight to his sinewy arm. Though she had no real strength against the muscles that rippled beneath her fingers, she held on all the same. She didn't want to release him until he had consented to her inspection, lest the spell break and he walk away leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

Dwalin sat, his eyes firmly fixed on her now. She watched him a moment, afraid he might bolt away in defiance. When he showed no signs of it, she tentatively let go his arm. His gaze drifted down to where her fingers had held him, then back to her face. Did no one touch him? Perhaps she had offended him. Well, she would just have to deal with that after he was tended.

She knelt beside the cot to look at his leg. What with his mud-caked trousers and heavy boot, she could see little of the wounds but the blood that had escaped them.

"I need to take off your boot," she told him even as she unstrapped and unlaced the massive thing. He neither spoke nor made to move, so she assumed he had no objection. If he had, she would have fought him on the matter anyway - the boot had to come off. He did nothing to assist her in the process, but after much enthusiastic tugging, she finally extricated his foot. Blood had pooled inside the boot, but his foot was unscathed. "I'll need to cut away your trousers."

"Fine." He grumped as she pivoted him to lay his legs on the cot properly, but he refused to lie down. It was no bother to her - so long as he consented to her treatment, he could be as uncomfortable as he liked. She took up a pair of scissors and carefully cut through the fabric of his trousers and undergarment, peeling them away from his thick calf. Blood oozed freely now, which she mopped up with a clean cloth to get a closer look.

"This is no sword wound." She delicately touched the meat of his calf, examining the injury. "The cuts are ragged, more like a..."

"Warg bite." His voice was low and matter-of-fact.

" _Warg bite?_ " She stared at him in disbelief. "You were going to let a warg bite go untreated?"

He seemed almost bored with the conversation. "It was just a pup."

She choked back a laugh at his obstinance. Shaking her head at how difficult males could be, particularly this stubborn warrior, she gathered her supplies and clean water. Just a pup, indeed. It still had had teeth enough to tear open his flesh in multiple places. She gently sponged at the edges of the wounds.

"The age of the animal really makes no difference," she scolded. "An injury like this can fester in the winter months."

He brushed off her concern. "I could have tended it in my rooms."

"That isn't wise, if not cared for properly -" She started and gave him a hard look. "Is that why you've never yet received care here? Because you tend yourself?"

An indifferent shrug was his only response. She wasn't sure if she was more irritated with his contempt, or impressed that he was still alive. "I hate to think what other injuries you've hidden away to care for on your own."

"You'd faint dead away if you knew." A glint of mischief in his eyes melted some of her anger. That there might be a spark of laughter somewhere inside this surly dwarf was a pleasant revelation.

"I'm sure I would."

The bite was not pretty. She cleaned the injury twice to be sure the tears were rid of all traces of warg saliva. The filthy creatures were rife with disease and could bring on all manner of putrid fevers. That the orcs to the north had even bred wargs was news to her.

"Were full-grown wargs seen among the orcs?" she asked as she poured fresh water over his wounds.

"I thought the age of the animal made no difference." He drawled out his answer, apparently enjoying throwing her words back at her.

She made no pretense of concealing her exasperation. "Do you know, you may be the most difficult male I've ever tended?"

"It's no surprise." He shifted to make himself more comfortable on the cot but remained sitting up. "Aye, the filth have wargs, now. Too small yet to be ridden, but vicious. None of those they brought to battle returned."

"I'm sure you made short work of the one that did this." Even in the healing rooms, Dwalin had two battle axes strapped to his back and three daggers looped in his belt, not to mention the devices he wore over his fists. He would not have suffered the warg long. "Still, I would not have you standing as adamant as the day is long, bleeding all over my floors, while you wait for lesser injuries to be treated."

"My warriors needed to be tended first." His voice was so sincere, she looked up at him in a new kind of surprise. His features had softened slightly - had his injury been more severe, she would have suspected blood loss had affected his mind, so altered was his attitude. "I would not be tended before every other lad has had his chance."

Of course. The captain must be the last dwarf standing. She guessed it went beyond just the nobility of warriors. Dwarves were a hardy race and few readily admitted to weakness of any kind. As captain of the armies and known as the most lethal of all the soldiers in Erebor, Dwalin must be even more reluctant to do so. Perhaps she _had_ insulted him by demanding he let her tend him.

She lowered her voice to a more confidential tone. "Would you like something for the pain?"

He shrugged his giant shoulders. "It's not so bad."

His stubborn nonchalance was amusing, despite his utter disregard for his health. "No," she said, her voice full of mirth, "a warg bite is nothing at all."

His mouth turned up into the smallest of smiles. "I don't believe we've met."

"Not officially, no." He had been in the healing rooms under similar circumstances several times, although this was the first instance he had received care himself - the little mystery of his resistance to orc blades had been cleared up thanks to his admission of self care in his chambers. She had also seen him at the occasional court dinner she was invited to attend, but they had never yet been introduced. "My name is Lív."

"Lív," he said with a nod, "it's good to have the name of the lass who removed my boot with such vigor and cut off my trousers so indelicately."

"To tend your warg bite, let us not forget." She couldn't tell if he was genuinely upset or simply joking with her, but she chose to take it in stride.

After daubing salve over his injuries, she worked to bandage his calf. The punctures were jagged but clean and had not severed his tendons, which would have been the worse injury. Lingering pain was her greatest concern, but he did not admit to any. He should be able to walk on it with but a little difficulty.

"It will scar," she warned.

His body shook with a huff of contempt. "I think I'll manage."

She gave him a quick once-over. He had scars enough already - his bare forearms had a thick lacework over them and on his face a thin one ran through an eyebrow and across the bridge of his nose. Considering what she knew of his history, she would have been surprised to find he had much pristine flesh left at all.

"I'll be needin' my boot," he said, rousing her from her examination of his features.

"Of course." Lív picked up the heavy boot and slipped it onto his foot, leaving the straps loose. "Don't lace it too tight, or you could increase swelling and irritate the wound."

He swung his legs to the floor. "It's not the first time I've had an injured leg, lass."

"Nor my first time tending one." She placed her hands on her hips, defying him to make another contradictory remark. "Now, have you any other injuries?"

"No."

"Can I trust your word, or will I have to strip you down to check?" Damn her stupid tongue. His eyes sparkled as he watched her and he might have smirked beneath his beard, but he said nothing - thank Mahal for that. She waved him off the cot to cover her embarrassment. "If you have no other injuries, you're free to go. You know to watch for signs of festering, I'm sure."

He inclined his head slightly and stood. "Good to meet you, Lív." Dwalin returned to the spot he had earlier occupied, not even limping on the bandaged leg as he went. He resumed his stance as before, arms folded across his chest, surveying his dwarves with a discerning eye. Now and then his gaze turned to her, and she wondered that it should. That her eyes were so often on him to notice it was equally surprising.

#

Dwalin entered King Dáin's council chambers to give his report on the skirmish. Dáin always liked an update after battle of any scope or scale. Dwalin thought his interest in the battle's results little made up for his absence during its execution, but that was not his place to say.

Dáin stood to welcome his captain. "How did it go?"

"No losses. Many were injured, but only a handful remain in the healing rooms. We're none the worse for it." His leg wound and the healer who had tended it briefly crossed his mind, but there was no call to mention either to Dáin.

"What of the orcs?"

He gave a brief shake of his head. "None escaped us."

A satisfied grin crept over Dáin's grizzled features. "I don't doubt it. Your battle rages are a thing of legend."

Dwalin shrugged off the comment. "Any word from Dale? What do they report?"

"King Bard has sent no word so far," Dáin said, his distaste for his fellow king evident in his tone of scorn. "Our scouts report no more than occasional skirmishes on their eastern borders."

King Bard of Dale's coronation had taken place the previous spring, followed immediately by his wedding. Dáin and his family had attended both events, along with Dwalin and a few others acting as their royal guard. Since then, Bard and his advisors regularly sought counsel with Dáin on trade agreements, but relations between the two kingdoms were strained. For now, they conducted business as though a great distance lay between their kingdoms rather than only one league.

"I'm sure they'll call for aid if they get in deeper than they can handle," Dwalin said.

"You can count on it." Dáin sat down in a large armchair and took up a glass of brandy. "Bard has no trouble at all with asking for things. He only gets touchy when he has to pay for them." He laughed at his joke, which fell flat under Dwalin's stern gaze.

"Now, about the orcs." He was suddenly all business. "What do you advise?"

"They're holed up somewhere in the Greys. We could search for signs of them, but that might take months. I wouldn't ask that of my scouts right as winter's coming on, they'd be as likely to die from cold as from an orc blade."

Dáin nodded. "I agree. A wild goose chase is better suited to spring. A small band like this can wait."

Dwalin bristled at Dáin's dismissive attitude toward the orcs. "We fought over fifty on the mountainside today." That was no _small band_ to his mind.

Dáin nodded approval. "It will take them time to recover from that." He sank lower in his chair, apparently as comfortable as could be. "Thank you for your report, Dwalin. You may be at your leisure." He raised his glass of brandy to him. "Let's hope it lasts."

Dwalin nodded and left the king's chambers. He strode through the corridors, ignoring the guards stationed there who briefly bowed their heads in deference as he passed. His dark look took in little as he returned to his own rooms.

Leisure time was the last thing he needed.


	2. Chapter 2

Dwalin was in his brother's chambers, working alongside him as they made preparations for dinner. The two often dined together and when they did, it was always a joint effort. Unfortunately, this evening it seemed no matter what task he undertook, Balin found fault with his attempts.

"What are you doing?" Balin peeped around Dwalin's shoulder with a critical eye.

Dwalin barely turned to look at his brother. "Slicing the bread," he growled.

"This?" Balin picked up pieces of the loaf that had been crushed under the weight of Dwalin's hand before being wantonly cut in jagged strips. "Give me the knife before you do yourself a mischief. This bread has been butchered enough as it is."

Dwalin made no argument as Balin took the knife from him and finished preparing the bread and cheese plate. He stomped to the table and sat down in front of his mug of ale. Perhaps he had poured that wrong, too. He drank it down at once, just to check. Seemed fine. Probably he needed another to be sure.

Balin gave him a sharp look as he brought plates to the table before sitting down himself. "What's got your beard in such a bother tonight, Brother?"

Dwalin set to heaping food onto his plate. "Orcs."

Balin gestured for him to continue. "You'll have to give me a little bit more to go on than that."

Dwalin leaned back in his chair. "I thought we'd taken care of their filth years ago, but here we are, fighting the same battles. Their numbers increase, they're breeding wargs - this is no rogue band as Dáin wants to believe." How they could have so increased their numbers in such a short amount of time, Dwalin couldn't guess. Perhaps the orcs across the north had gathered together in the Grey Mountains just as the dwarves had done at Erebor. It was an unpleasant thought.

"They're breeding wargs?" The look of alarm on Balin's face was a reminder of the seriousness of the situation.

"Aye, I've got the proof of it where a young one took a bite of my leg two nights past." He winced, remembering the way the hideous thing had held onto him even after it was dead. He'd had to pry its jaws apart to free his leg. The sound of the warg's teeth snapping back together was still fresh in his mind. "If they're sending out the pups, they haven't any full grown but the two they bred. Still, it's ill news."

Dwalin continued eating, but Balin was on his feet in an instant. "What do you need for it? Has it been properly cleaned yet? I've got Óin's creams here somewhere..." He crossed the room and was going through the contents of a cupboard before Dwalin could explain.

"There's no need of that. It's already been seen to," he said, but Balin wasn't listening.

"Warg bites are serious business, you should have come to me immediately." Balin placed an assortment of jars on the top of the cupboard, muttering the names of their contents to himself before he knelt down again to find more. "I don't trust your method of cleaning such wounds."

"It isn't my method you need to worry about."

Balin paused to look at him. "I don't follow."

"I was seen to in the healing rooms." He scowled slightly, hating to admit such a thing. He'd not been tended by a healer in decades.

"The healing rooms?" Balin slowly returned to the dining table, his eyes serious as he watched him. He glanced down at Dwalin's legs, as though he could see the injury through his clothes. "How bad is the bite, then?"

Dwalin scoffed. "Not bad, but the healer wouldn't take my word for it. She's a stubborn little lass, that one."

Balin sat down in his chair again, apparently more at ease now that he knew Dwalin had not resorted to caring for his own warg bite. "You might have said that from the beginning."

"I thought I did."

"I can relax knowing you were seen to by Lív." Balin returned to filling his plate. "She was quite sought after in the Iron Hills. I've heard nothing but good things about her and her methods."

"She's pushy, I'll grant you that," Dwalin huffed.

Balin looked far too pleased. "She must be, else she never would have managed to get you to sit still for her."

Dwalin only grunted in response. Balin said no more and they both got down to the business of their meal. Dwalin's mind lingered on the healer who had tended him. _Lív_. He had seen her plenty of times before but he'd never given her any thought. She was a healer and a woman, and he needed neither.

He could yet see the ferocious look on her face when she grabbed his arm and demanded he let her tend to his injury. She had been beyond angry, her eyes blazing in her frustration with him. Now he could laugh about it, but in the moment he had been only shocked. Few dwarves regarded Dwalin with anything other than deference and a sort of trembling awe that had long grown tiresome. He was used to doling out glares and harsh words to the point that no one expected anything different of him. Lív, however, tolerated none of it.

A tiny, niggling thought grew in the back of his mind. "What do you mean, she was sought after?"

Balin gave him a blank look as he chewed a bite of cheese. "How's that?"

Now he'd asked it, Dwalin found he didn't actually want to clarify his question. "You said the healer was sought after in the Iron Hills."

"Oh, yes, Lív's skills were well known to the Halls and the villages of Men that lie about the area. We were very lucky that she chose to come to us." Balin chewed for another moment but then stopped and gave Dwalin a wry look. "What was it you thought I meant?"

He shook his head, completely done with the conversation. "Nothing."

Balin's knowing glance only made him focus his entire attention on finishing his supper as quickly as possible, silently berating himself for his foolishness all the while. One hundred seventy-three years and he still hadn't learned to keep his mouth shut around his brother.

#

"Please don't fuss over me, I can do all this myself." Lív took the teapot from Runa's hands and gestured that she should sit. The other dwarrowdam scowled at the breach of custom but did not argue. She sat down heavily and sighed as though it was the first time she had been seated in a week. Runa was exhausted from long hours working at her loom in Erebor's textile rooms.

"But I invited you." Runa's voice was thick with self-reproach. As host, custom required Runa to wait on Lív, not the other way around.

"And we have known each other far too long to stand on ceremony, have we not?" Lív poured tea for them both before sitting down herself. "I had the honor of helping you bring your children into the world, I think I can pour a little tea for you now and then."

Runa laughed as she took the offered cup. "That hardly counts as an honor. I was so miserable in childbirth, I would have accepted an orc midwife."

Laughter stuck in Lív's throat. The method of orc propagation had never crossed her mind before. They just somehow appeared - their evil habits were entirely unknown to her. "Do you suppose they _have_ midwives?"

"No, because that would imply natural relations between orcs and such a thing doesn't bear thinking of." A scowl crossed Runa's face as she considered the matter. "I rather thought they came from bogs or some such thing."

"What came from bogs? I want to see a bog." Runa's son, Askel entered the sitting room, followed close behind by his sister, Astra. Their boundless energy seemed to fill the room, despite their small frames.

"We were speaking of orcs," Runa said, "not bogs."

"Oh, I don't care where orcs come from, all I care about is sending them to their graves." Askel staged a mock fight, thrusting and striking against an imaginary foe. Astra joined in, pulling an invisible arrow from her quiver and shooting into the recesses of the sitting room. Apparently they were completely overrun with the beasts, for this went on some time.

"You have quite the aim, Astra. Will you join your brother on the battlefield?" Lív asked.

The girl stopped her shooting and went to Lív's side. "I think I'd rather be a healer, like you." The sweetness of her comment warmed Lív's heart.

Astra then tilted her head to one side. "Or a princess, like Elin." This sentiment was rather less touching. Astra had been very much taken with young Princess Elin of Erebor of late, and much of her talk centered on the beauty of Elin's manners, hair, and dress.

"The latter will prove difficult, my dear," Runa said, "for we are not royal, nor would I encourage you to marry royalty."

Astra's little chin stuck out in defiance. "I can still be a princess." She was yet young enough to believe such things were bestowed as easily as a cloak or a toy. Considering that Elin herself had only had the title but four years, Astra's position on the matter made perfect sense.

"You could always marry an orc prince." Askel grinned at the angry scowl his comment elicited.

"You're the orc prince." Astra shoved her brother hard in the chest but her efforts to cause pain were lost on him. He would have been only too delighted for her to fight him in earnest.

"That's quite enough, you two. Run off so that Lív and I might have some peace and quiet." Runa gestured as though to sweep them from the room and looked pleasantly surprised when her children obeyed.

She sighed again, stretching her legs out before her. "How many years until they are of age again?"

"You would faint dead away if I were to tell you." Lív's echo of Captain Dwalin's words in the infirmary sent a smile across her face, which reaction did not go unnoticed by her friend.

"What? Have my children aged backwards somehow and I was none the wiser?" Runa's face took on a horrified expression at the thought.

"Fortunately they appear to be aging normally, albeit far too slowly for your taste."

"Don't I know it?" Runa sipped her tea and her gaze turned up to a charcoal drawing that hung over the fireplace mantel. It depicted a dwarf male in his prime, with full beard and carefully tended braids in his hair. "I only wish Asgrim could be here to see them."

Lív said nothing but reached out to pat her friend's hand. She still found herself at a loss for words on the death of Runa's husband. Asgrim had fallen when he rode out to Erebor with Dáin at the Battle of Five Armies four years ago. How could she, an unmarried dwarf, hope to console a widow and mother in her grief? Everything she thought to say sounded hollow and false. As she often did, she sought to offer comfort through her presence rather than her words.

"Now Askel wants to be trained as a warrior." The dismay in Runa's face was plain as day. "I'll not hinder him, though it's the last thing I want him to do. Why could he not become a tradesman? He would make a fine grocer, I'm sure."

Both women laughed at the idea of Askel being satisfied with life behind a market counter. The boy thrived on news of Erebor's armies and was counting the days until his twentieth birthday when he could begin proper training. Five years was nothing in the life of a dwarf, but to an eager young lad, it seemed an eternity.

Lív had been in Erebor three years already, and those had raced by as swift as the River Running. So, too, would the time pass for Askel, though he did not know it. "Perhaps he will change his mind before the time comes," she offered.

Runa looked at her as though she were daft. "A few years is not enough to change the mind of a stubborn dwarf, and you know it."

#

Lív strolled through Erebor's Greenway, a long path of green-tinted stone two flights above the main interior corridor. It wound along the edges of the cavern's walls, creating a balcony that looked down onto the thoroughfare. Its balusters and walls were covered in intricate runes and imagery carved into the stone. She often walked there, gazing into the bustling heart of the Mountain where dwarves scurried about on business of every kind. It was a sort of guilty pleasure to watch others engaged on such errands while she was at ease to let her own mind wander.

That day, it seemed whatever else she wanted to think of, her mind would drift back to Dwalin, Captain of Erebor. His imposing figure was known to her, for it could hardly be missed, and his name was revered as legend, but beyond this, Lív knew little of him. Stories about him spread through the halls - it was said orcs ran at the sight of him, and well could she believe it. He was indeed a fearsome sight to behold. He was unpleasant and menacing, even to dwarves.

Still, the last few days she could hardly keep him off her mind. Chalking it up to an inflated sense of intimacy created by her touch and their stubborn banter, she tried to put him out of her thoughts, but it wouldn't do. He was stuck there. She felt like an awkward dwarfling who had just discovered the wonders of the male species. The experience with Dwalin was far worse than any in her younger days, for he was no youth but a man grown, with long years of life behind him.

There he was again - this time in the flesh. Her heart beat a little quicker as she looked over the railing of the Greenway to see his familiar figure looming over the crowds that rushed by. It was odd to see him out in the open, among the tradesmen and everyday folk of Erebor. She imagined he spent most of his time in the armory or the training rooms, probably with a weapon in hand. That he could have any business at all in the marketplace was strangely amusing.

Leaning her elbows against the railing, she indulged a moment and just watched him as he lumbered along the corridor below. One of the tallest dwarves in the Mountain, and with a bald head covered in distinctive tattoos, he was easy to keep track of among the rest of Erebor's residents.

He was stopped by someone from the market who seemed especially delighted to see him. The merchant's arms flailed about wildly as he engaged him in excited conversation. Even from a distance, Dwalin's discomfort was evident. She guessed he didn't much appreciate being spoken to in such a way, and she smiled down at the awkwardness of the scene.

At that moment, Dwalin looked up and his gaze went straight to her. The smile froze on her face. What was this, an old warrior's trick to know when he was being watched? Despite a twinge of embarrassment, she couldn't seem to draw her eyes away. It would have been nothing to be caught looking at him were she not perched high above, half in shadows, as though spying.

He looked down again and, saying something to the merchant, departed. He had certainly seen her but gave no indication of it. She felt strangely deflated, although she could not say what else she had expected of him. Binding his leg had not exactly put them on friendly terms.

She remained where she was, lazily taking in the scene below and trying not to give too much weight to such a meaningless encounter, when Dwalin himself stepped out onto the pathway not far from her. That he had left the merchant to find her on the Greenway was surprising to say the least, but she tried not to let her astonishment show.

He stopped at her side and leaned against the railing, his back to the hall below. "Do all healers have such a knack for watching people unawares?" His accusation carried the slightest lilt of amusement to it.

"Of course. I have to be able to observe my patients' progress unimpeded. I never know if my inquiries will be given a straight answer by some of the tougher dwarves." The smile she gave him was all innocence. "How is your leg, by the way?"

Dwalin snorted, which she took to be mirth rather than derision. "The leg's fine. No trouble at all."

She grinned at him. "I'm glad to hear it. I will write that comment down in my ledger next to warg pup bites _\- no trouble at all_."

His shoulders shook in silent laughter. "You are some kind of lass." She cocked her head to one side, waiting for him to elaborate, but he didn't. His grey eyes sparkled as he looked back at her. "What are you doing up here?"

"Walking the Greenway." She gestured along the pathway's loop, though of course he knew of it - and all the ways to reach it. "Watching folk come and go. Just thinking, I suppose." Just what she had been thinking of could go unsaid.

He nodded, but she got the feeling he didn't quite believe her. "How are my warriors who are yet in your care?"

Of course, he sought her out for a report on his soldiers. Strangely, this did not bring the relief she expected. "They are progressing well."

He raised his eyebrows, indicating her answer wasn't quite satisfactory, so she elaborated. "Búri is the worst off, but that's not unusual considering his injury. His shoulder is improving slowly, but I see progress. The others are mending as well as may be expected."

"Will Búri need to delay his wedding?" Dwalin had hundreds of warriors under his command - that he knew of Búri's wedding at all spoke volumes of the dwarf standing next to her.

"I hope not, although it will be easier to say as the day draws closer." They had yet nearly a month before Búri and Eir were to be wed, as the happy couple continually reminded her.

Spring weddings had once been traditional in the Iron Hills, but King Dáin had given leave to abandon all such marital customs in the hopes of increasing his kingdom's numbers. Betrothals now might last anywhere from the traditional full year to just one week, depending on the couple's eagerness to marry. Búri and Eir had been betrothed only a few months.

"He knows it is not certain?"

"Oh, yes, he and Eir ask me every day if he will be ready or not. I should think they would be more concerned about whether or not he will regain full use of his arm." Thanks to the Battle of Five Armies, many dwarves had been left with scars, limps, and missing appendages. Búri would be in good company if it turned out he were permanently lamed.

"I expect it's easier to think of one day rather than the string of all the rest of his days laid out before him." There was a bitterness to Dwalin's words that surprised Lív. She suspected there was more to his comment than idle talk but would not dare ask him about it.

"We are keeping a watchful eye on him," was the best she could think to say.

In the silence, they simply looked at each other for a moment. As unsettling as his attempts to ignore her in the healing rooms had been, his seeming inability to look away from her now was even more so. His grey eyes were startling in how they pierced her, not for any sort of harshness but that they seemed so perceptive. She felt he learned everything there was to know about her in that single glance. What did he think of his assessment?

She broke herself from these thoughts before they could carry her away. "I really must get back to the healing rooms. If you'll excuse me, Captain Dwalin."

"Actually, if you don't mind, I'd like to accompany you. I should pay Búri and the others a visit." Despite his size and obvious strength, he made his offer in such a way that Lív felt free to refuse him if she so desired.

She didn't want to refuse him. "I would like that."

"Is this a habit of yours to walk the Greenway?" he asked as they set off along the path. She had to add a little skip to her walk in order to match his stride, which he soon slowed.

"Yes, I like it up here. It's peaceful without being quite isolated."

He gave her a sidelong glance. "Do you know what it's for?" She had to admit she didn't. "Time was, the Greenway was used only by the great kings of Erebor. They could watch over their subjects in privacy."

It made sense - from the vantage of the Greenway, one could see the whole of the main corridor. No one could go in or out unseen. If it had originally been intended for the king's use, that might explain why no one ever walked there. "Is it quite all right for me to use it?"

He barked a laugh. "Would it stop you if it weren't?"

"You make it sound as though I am the obstinate one between us." The look she gave him was friendly, if pointed.

He laughed again, a soft rolling sound from his chest. "I don't deny that I'm willful."

"For example, if you would rather let a wound go untreated?" she offered.

"I wasn't thinking of that particularly, no." The glance he gave her was unreadable. "And my wounds never go untreated. I told you, I tend them myself."

"What is in your arsenal of remedies, may I ask?" Since he had first confessed to treating his own wounds, she had been curious to know just what methods he used. He certainly seemed no worse for wear.

"Hmm," he rumbled, "a few ointments and salves. Bandages, of course. Needle and thread."

"Needle and..." She stopped in the corridor just to gape at him, utterly indignant. "You've sewn up your own wounds?"

After going on another pace, he turned around slowly to face her. "It's not that hard." He sounded as though he were speaking of something as simple as braiding hair or tying one's boot.

Lív stared, trying to gauge his facial expression, but he seemed to have just the two - serious, and deadly serious. "I can't tell if you're teasing me or not."

He might have smiled at her. "You'll know when I'm teasing."

She wasn't at all sure she would. She caught up to him and they continued on to the infirmary. Once again, she was torn between feeling disgruntled at his disregard for healers, and being amazed that he could tolerate closing his own wounds. She stole glances at him in the corridor, trying to figure him out. He was made of stronger stuff than most, that much was certain.

Once inside the healing rooms, they parted as he visited with his soldiers and she checked on the same. Seven of the warriors from the last skirmish had been left to recover under her care. These seven generally had cheerful dispositions and a propensity to pester her with all manner of pointless banter as she made her rounds. She checked on Búri first, who, as she had told Dwalin, was healing the slowest of the group. He was also the least inclined to coy comments about Lív, for he was betrothed and could find no interest in any female but his beloved. As such, he was the most pleasant to speak with.

"How are you feeling today?" She felt his forehead for signs of fever.

"My shoulder still gives me pain, but I think it's less than before." The hopeful smile he gave her betrayed that he didn't fully believe his assertion.

"What about your arm?"

He shook his head. "It isn't painful, though my fingers still feel odd." This was worrisome, but it had only been a few days since he'd been injured.

She noticed Dwalin as he visited each warrior at his cot. She couldn't hear their conversations, but the lads' admiration for their captain was plain on their faces. His presence must mean a great deal to them.

"Miss Lív?" Búri's voice drew her out of her own thoughts.

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you think I may return to my chambers soon?" His hopeful smile returned, though it seemed he knew he was not yet ready to be released.

"I would like to keep watch a few more days, at least," she told him. "Rest assured, I will not keep you from Eir a moment longer than I must."

He seemed pleased with this response. She briefly touched his arm in farewell before moving to the next young dwarf in her care.

"Mistress Lív," Frár said from his cot, "I'm awfully thirsty today. There's only one thing that can cure it."

She knew what that cure was, for Frár had asked for it each day he had been cooped up with her and the others in the healing rooms.

"I think my wounds would heal much faster if I were allowed an ale." He gave her a rakish grin. "Just one?"

"One?" She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Well, one each day would be much appreciated." His grin widened as he pleaded with her.

"I will see what I can do." She put off his question as though she, herself, were not the one in charge of whether or not he was granted his much longed for ale. She did not allow ale in the healing rooms because when combined with the pain relieving herbs she used, it led to grogginess and disorientation. This reason was sound enough to her, but lads such as Frár always held out hope that they would be granted immunity from her rule.

"I know what would make my wounds heal faster," said Iari from the middle of the room. He sat up in his cot, propped by pillows, and looked at Lív with bright eyes. Like Búri, he had a shoulder wound, but his had been pierced with an orc sword rather than flayed with a mace.

Whatever pains it gave him, they never seemed to hamper his endless flirtation. For three full days he had given her nothing but pert remarks and saucy glances. Lív knew his advances were all show - she was well-versed in the type of male who enjoyed wiling away his time in the infirmary with idle nonsense aimed in her direction. Still, she little liked the vulgar comments and tone of disrespect he made free to use with her.

She went to his bedside to inspect his wound and feel his forehead for fever, ignoring the wanton stares he cast her way. His injury was worrying for being so difficult to properly clean, but so far the wound had shown no signs of festering. After satisfying herself that his injury was in good condition, she rewrapped his shoulder. Dwalin had joined her and stood on the other side of Iari's cot, but it seemed the younger dwarf had been too busy making eyes at Lív to notice his captain's approach.

"If you will see what you can do for Frár, can you not do the same for me and my desires?" The look on his face was positively wolfish.

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for your desires, Iari." She would not even indulge him with a smile - it only made him all the more vivid in his descriptions of those desires. "My interest is strictly in your shoulder."

"I couldn't interest you in a trade?" The grin he flashed her was not at all agreeable. "You heal me of my wounds, and I heal you of your maidenhood."

Dwalin clapped his large hand on the lad's good shoulder, digging his fingers into the flesh there. Iari winced under his captain's grip as Dwalin leaned down to whisper in his ear. Lív could not hear what he said, but it must have been unpleasant, for Iari's face went ashen, then green. She wondered whether it might have been wise to bring him a bucket, but he managed to hold himself together.

Dwalin stood straight again but his hand remained firmly clenched on Iari's shoulder.

"Forgive me, Miss Lív." Iari did not seem to have the heart to look at her but kept his eyes turned down into his lap. "I won't make such indecent comments again."

Dwalin roughly patted Iari's shoulder a few times, jostling him about on the cot. "There's a lad," he said, apparently in good humor, in spite of Iari's crestfallen appearance. He nodded to Lív before continuing on to the bedside of the next warrior.

"Your shoulder is improving, Iari." She chose to act as though she hadn't heard his rude remarks or seen Dwalin's whispered response. "I think you will be able to return to your chambers in another day or two."

Iari nodded and swallowed hard. "Thank you, Miss Lív." He lay back on his pillows and feigned sleep. The change in his attitude was a welcome surprise. She looked to Dwalin, who watched her from a few cots over, and gave him a small, crooked smile of thanks. Ever so slightly, he inclined his head to her in acknowledgement.

The nobility of warriors, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next two weeks, Dwalin regularly visited the soldiers who lingered on in the healing rooms until only Búri remained. He was friendly, polite, and thoughtful - in short, he was everything Lív thought he couldn't possibly be on their first meeting. Although his visits with the injured dwarves were brief, he always took time to speak with her as well. He was not garrulous by any means, but what comments he made were sincere and well meant. Some days he did little more than ask after her own health before he departed, but even those momentary interactions seemed somehow significant from one so taciturn.

Finally Búri was well enough that Lív thought him able to return to his own chambers. His wound no longer troubled her and the sensation had returned to his fingers so that he could move his arm almost normally, if not smoothly. Nothing more would be served by keeping him in the healing rooms, and he was desperate to return to his betrothed. Eir's visits to him in the evenings had become uncomfortably intimate as she folded herself next to him on his cot and spoke softly of their coming wedding. It was best that they have their privacy again.

"You will come to our wedding feast, will you not?" Búri asked. He fairly buzzed in his excitement to leave the healing rooms. "I would not be here to be wed at all were it not for you."

"Yes, do come," Eir said as she put one arm around Búri's waist. "You need a break from this wretched infirmary."

Lív was gratified to receive Búri's heart-felt invitation, although rather less so to hear Eir's comments about her place of work. She couldn't fault her though - the healing rooms could be nobody's favorite place in the halls. "I'll be happy to come."

Satisfied, Búri bid Lív farewell and bundled off, one arm in a sling and the other wrapped around his betrothed wife. He grinned wildly at the return of his freedom.

Silence then reigned in the healing rooms. During lulls between orc attacks, calls for healers were largely mundane, for dwarves were not prone to illness or disease. After Búri's departure, the most excitement she had was tending a male in the residential levels who had let himself grow so corpulent he could no longer leave his chambers. Short of moving himself of his own volition or stuffing his mouth with cakes less often, both of which he refused to do, she could offer him little advice.

Despite her easy duties, a melancholy took hold of Lív. Dwalin had not returned to the healing rooms. Somehow she thought that he would, but with no warriors taking up residence there, he must have found his presence unnecessary. He had never loitered in the healing rooms before - why should she expect that he would now? Still, she had grown accustomed to their daily visits and felt his absence sorely.

She tried not to hope for his return. Disappointed hope would lead to...well, she didn't know what and refused to find out. She was one hundred thirteen years old, after all, not some silly forty-something. She was past all that, wasn't she?

#

King Bard and King Dáin sat across from each other at table in the halls of Dale, appearing far more at ease than they actually were. Dwalin, Balin, and Glóin were also present in the royal courts, along with four of Dale's top advisors. The invitation to dine in the city of men was ostensibly extended as a friendly gesture between allied kingdoms, but Dwalin always suspected something more at work when it came to Bard.

Conversation passed idly about the table but Dwalin would have none of it. Bard did not invite dwarves to his table for his own pleasure - these meals were generally a prelude to a request of some kind. Being straightforward himself, he despised such pretense. He only waited for the man to finally make his desires plain.

Dáin, too, had learned the habits of King Bard, and was unashamed to speak his mind. "To what do we owe the honor of this delicious meal?"

The hint of accusation in Dáin's voice did not go unnoticed. Bard's mouth twisted into something more like a grimace than a smile. "I thought it would be a pleasant show of good will between our kingdoms."

Dáin barked out a laugh. "Aye, it is indeed a pleasant show. We're all amused. But what is it that you want, laddie?"

Bard sighed heavily and laced his fingers before him on the table. "As you well know, orcs have been coming down out of the Grey Mountains. Our outermost farmlands have endured a few raids." The wince he gave said it had been more than just a few. "Thus far they've been small enough groups for our army to handle before the orcs posed a danger to the city proper, but the orcs' numbers increase little by little. We fear a larger attack, in force. We would like to make arrangements for trade."

Dáin looked on with an impassive expression. "I'm listening."

Bard was grim. "Our outer defenses are weak. We would pay to have your masons help us fortify the city wall in the case of...any eventuality."

"You would pay with what?" Dáin asked as though out of innocent curiosity.

"With gold, of course." His defeated tone said he knew where the conversation was headed.

"Gold that came from Erebor." Dáin pointed an accusatory finger at Bard, as though the gold had been stolen by him rather than given to him.

"Yes, and it is ours now." Bard smiled again, and again it was like nothing so much as a scowl.

"I dislike the way you came by that gold." Dáin continued to pick at the food on his plate as though their conversation were not quite enough to keep his interest. "It was not the hobbit's to give away." He still resented that Bilbo had given the largest portion of the treasure Thorin had gifted him to the people of Laketown. That the Master had run off with more than half of that little changed Dáin's mind.

"You would rather the hobbit took it all to hoard away in a hole somewhere rather than give it to those in need?" Seeing the light he had shone on Dale's circumstances, Bard was quick to amend his comment. "Rather than give it to those it was promised to by Thorin?"

"Thorin doesn't enter into it," Dwalin said sharply.

"Oh, but he does." Bard's voice was barely over a whisper. "Every time we discuss Dale's gold it comes down to this. Where did we get it? Who promised it to us? That it is useless to us without something to trade it for means nothing to you."

"It is useless to us, as well, for we have gold aplenty." Dáin scratched at his beard while Bard's advisors shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

"What is it that you want?" Bard's temper was rising, but it was no surprise. These diplomatic visits never did go well.

Dáin gestured along the heavily laden table. "More provisions. Stores of meat, grain, and vegetables."

Bard appeared relieved. "I'm sure we can work something out."

Dáin inclined his head as if Bard had thanked him for a gift. Bard pursed his lips as though to hold back what he was about to say. The man was not yet done with his requests. "There is more I have need to discuss with you."

"Well, out with it, lad." Dáin's smile almost glowed white from amid his bright red beard. Bard hated being called _lad_.

"Our armory is not what I would like. We have need of improved weapons." He opened his mouth to go on, but Dwalin interrupted him.

"Can you not do with pike hooks and crow bills?" His voice was heavy with sarcasm that was not lost on Bard.

The King of Dale glared at Dwalin, his furrowed brow and the tight line of his mouth putting his frustration on display. "Leave us," he said to his advisors. The four men seemed reluctant to do so, but at a stern glance from Bard, they left the chambers.

He stood and gripped the back of the chair he had just vacated. "You have something you wish to say to me, Master Dwalin?" His voice was clipped and measured, his eyes steely.

Balin cleared his throat but Dwalin would not be swayed. He tossed his napkin onto his plate. "Once again you want something from dwarves though you have little to offer us in return."

Bard grimaced again. It was a struggle for the man to keep his temper in check, that was plain to see. "Much has changed since you first came to me on the Lake seeking assistance."

"Yes," Dwalin snorted, "now you seek assistance from us."

Dáin drank his ale, looking on with little interest as the argument progressed. Glóin, too, seemed unimpressed, for it was not the first time Dwalin and Bard had exchanged words. For his part, Balin sought to subtly discourage his brother from such a display, but his gestures went ignored.

"We cannot fight large numbers of orcs so poorly armed, and our forges are nothing compared to yours." Bard's heavy black brow lowered over his eyes. "I ask only for a trade arrangement."

"Why do you not ask your great friends the elves?" Dwalin would never forget how Bard had allied himself and his men with the elven king of Mirkwood against Thorin. That the threatened battle had not come to pass hardly dimmed his resentment of this bowman turned king.

"They have been great friends," Bard said slowly, the contrast to Erebor left unsaid, "but King Thranduil will not trade arms, as you well know, and our own smiths work day and night to increase our supplies."

"I'm sure we'll be able to find a way to satisfy both parties," Balin said. As ever, he was the only voice of diplomacy when this group got together. "What do you require?"

Bard hesitated as he glanced about at the dwarves across from him. "Weapons, or iron enough to make them, to arm five hundred men."

Dáin raised his eyebrows in surprise but Dwalin laughed outright. "Sounds like you're asking us to outfit your whole army."

"What would you have me do?" Bard's voice rose to just below a shout. "Send my men into battle unarmed, unprotected?"

Dwalin turned his face away from Bard, conveying his disinterest in how Bard sent his men into battle.

Bard had apparently reached his breaking point. "Every time you step into my halls, Dwalin, you come looking for a fight." His voice was deadly quiet. "You refuse to listen to reason or sense. You cannot see beyond your own desire to blame me for a thing that was not my doing."

Bard's words were too like those he had used to accuse Thorin of greed and treachery four years ago in Laketown. That the man had been proven right only increased Dwalin's anger.

"I need a breath of air." He stood from the table unceremoniously. Giving a curt nod to Dáin, he said, "You do as you please." Erebor could trade away every last laborer to Dale for all he cared.

Giving no thought to the guards stationed outside the doors, he stormed from the royal dining chamber and exited the interior corridors. He found himself on a balcony overlooking Dale's partially restored houses, central market, and outer walls. Even from this vantage, Dwalin could see where the walls were weak and vulnerable, which served to turn his anger on himself. Well did he know the city needed repairs and their army weapons, why should he hinder such measures? His knuckles were white as he gripped the railing and allowed the chill breeze that blew through the valley to cool his temper.

It was not long before he heard soft footsteps. "You know you are in the wrong, do you not?"

He rolled his eyes and looked up into the grey, overcast sky. He knew Balin did not refer to his squabbles over masons or arms, but his underlying anger with Bard that colored their every interaction.

"He betrayed Thorin." He could not forget it.

Balin slowly walked up to stand beside him. "Thorin betrayed himself. With whom are you more angry?"

Dwalin could only shake his head. The way Thorin had behaved those last few days...he could not bear to remember. Far easier to remember Bard bringing his army to battle on Erebor's doorstep than to think of the reasons for it. He knew in the deepest part of himself that he was unfair in assigning blame of such things to Bard, but even these years later, he could not yet face how fully Thorin had fallen.

 _Get out before I kill you._

No, those memories were anguish.

"You have to let it go, Brother." Balin placed his hand on Dwalin's shoulder. "I can't stand to see you like this."

Dwalin exhaled heavily. Could he not let go his disappointment and shame in Thorin's fall to dragon sickness? Always he blamed Bard, Thranduil, even Bilbo, for Thorin's actions, when he knew no one was to blame except Thorin himself. Pretending it were not so had changed nothing.

"You think I have acted like a fool?"

"Oh, that I do," Balin said with his usual unflappable cheerfulness, "but that's not opinion, that's fact. It's a testament to Bard's long-suffering patience that he has never yet had you thrown into the dungeons for your insolence."

"Dale doesn't have dungeons," Dwalin scoffed.

"No, but if you keep this up, Bard just might have you dig one for your troubles." Balin shot his brother a wry grin.

Dwalin gave a short laugh in spite of himself. It was true Bard had never sought to punish or banish him for his caustic remarks over the years. After some of their more enthusiastic shouting matches, Dwalin had expected to find himself forcibly removed from Dale's halls, but such a thing had never happened.

Even so, he shook his head. "I'm not ready to make amends."

Balin patted him on the shoulder. "Remember, Brother, Men don't live as long as we do. If you intend to apologize, try to do it in the next forty years or so, would you?"

#

Bereft of patients, the healers spent much of their time making preparations for the next onslaught of injured, whenever that might be. They ground herbs, compounded ointments, and tended their medicinal garden. Lív spent an entire day setting their linen cupboard to rights. Between washing the linens, hanging them out to dry, and meticulously folding them, the endeavor had eaten up a great deal of time. It had not, unfortunately, proved any sort of mental distraction from the one dwarf who inexplicably loomed over her thoughts.

Why did Dwalin linger so in her memory? He was not the most pleasant dwarf she had ever encountered, nor the most handsome. And yet, his conversation and manners were not as gruff as they had initially seemed. She granted he was somewhat dour, but he was not actually unkind, and he had an underlying spark of mischief to him that she quite liked. And as to his appearance, well - she had entertained thoughts of his brooding masculinity that she'd never had of another.

She stood examining the stark white sheets neatly folded on the shelves when a voice sounded from behind, startling her.

"Some might think you had a mite too much time on your hands."

Lív spun around to find Dwalin looking completely at his ease. He wore neither his battle axes nor armor, but a simple green tunic, vest, and trousers. He was not left unarmed, for he still wore a large dagger in his belt. She guessed he only allowed himself to be completely unarmed when he was abed, which thought sent a twinge of pink over her cheeks.

"Captain Dwalin," she said, willing away such shameless thoughts, "it's good to see you." The ready smile she gave him could leave little doubt on that score, but she could not contain it.

"You're at your leisure I see." He nodded toward the neatly stacked linens.

"Aye, but it's always a good thing when healers' skills aren't needed. I trust we'll have a nice, slow winter free from orc encounters?" Why in Durin's name was she making small talk about the possibility of orc attacks?

"That'll be up to the orcs." There seemed no good response to his comment, so she said nothing. He just gazed at her a moment. "What do healers do during nice, slow winters?"

With his grey eyes upon her, she couldn't think of what she did. She suddenly had sympathy for all the young dwarrowdams, fresh come of age, who perpetually seemed to have fluff for brains. If their thoughts were anything as muddled as hers, they simply couldn't help it.

"We store up our supplies and energies for the next battle, I suppose. Isn't that what warriors do?"

"Something like that." His expression seemed to say he wasn't entirely pleased with her response. Considering his expression never seemed to say he was entirely pleased with anything, she didn't let it bother her.

"Can I help you with something, Captain Dwalin?" She clung to the use of his title as though it would provide the distance between them that her own thoughts did not.

"Aye. If you have a wee bit more of that salve you used on my leg, I'd appreciate it."

Worry seeped over her like a chill wind and she took a step closer to him. "Has your leg not healed?"

"My leg's fine, lass, don't fret about me. Your salve worked so well, I wanted to keep some on hand, is all. If you don't mind." Dwalin suddenly seemed awkward in the asking, as though she did not dole out salves, creams, and tinctures on the regular.

"Of course, I'll get you some." Leaving the linens, she went to the counter where she compounded her treatments. She found a container of the salve she had used to tend Dwalin's warg bite and scooped a generous amount into a clean jar.

"Here you are." She turned to find him closer than she had expected and she couldn't conceal a second start of surprise. She was not only acting like a silly young dwarrowdam, but a skittish one, at that.

He looked on in mild amusement. When he took the little jar, their fingers brushed together, whether by accident or design, she couldn't tell.

"I'm much obliged to you." His voice was too low for her liking. The gentle rumble only set her heart to fluttering.

Dwalin nodded and took his leave. She watched his every step as he departed, scolding herself for her foolishness all the while. If he wanted her salve to use in his own chambers, that meant he could have little intention of letting himself be tended by her again.

#

Búri and Eir's wedding ceremony was held in the celebration halls in the second level of Erebor. Dwalin was not part of the inner circle that surrounded the couple, but instead watched the proceedings amid the general crowds. Búri had invited him to participate in the circle, but he thought himself ill-suited to such ceremonial niceties and politely declined. So he stood at a distance with the other well-wishers of the Mountain and simply looked on.

The ceremony was short and well known to all dwarves. It consisted of the same brief words and actions their people had performed since Durin himself took a wife. Dwalin paid little attention, instead letting his eyes rove absently through the crowd until they fell upon Lív. She stood among the audience eagerly watching the happy couple, smiling at all the appropriate places as Búri and Eir said their vows and performed the short rites. She had the glisten of a tear in her eye, a sentiment he thought she was either too young or too old for, he wasn't sure which.

The ritual was soon over and the audience broke into merry applause. Before the ceremonial circle could fully disperse, music started up from one end of the hall and dancers paired off to form lines. This, too, he watched with little interest. His dancing days were long past.

In short order, Lív was pulled into the dance by eager dwarves feeling the lack of female partners. She laughed and jigged along with the rest, seemingly unperturbed, but this irked Dwalin. She should have been asked for a dance, with all due respect, not tugged from the crowds whether she liked to or no. That the dwarves dancing with her were some of his own soldiers was a small consolation. They would find themselves sparring against their captain soon enough, and he would not go easy on them.

He lingered about, unsure of just what he wanted to do. Such situations that demanded social niceties had never made him feel exactly at his ease. When custom required him to dance and be merry, he felt cumbersome and sullen. He was exactly backward to such festivities, which was why he avoided them whenever he could.

Occasionally he was approached by dwarves who wished to talk, but he had to brush them off. Yes, yes, he knew custom - it was expected he would chat idly about anything under rock and root at such a joyful event. Those who didn't know him thought perhaps he would be only too glad to regale them with the tale of the taking of Erebor. Those who did know him knew better than to dare ask such things.

He glanced again at the merrymakers. Those males were still dancing with Lív. She shook her head with a polite smile and made to leave the dance floor but they held her hands as though her refusals meant nothing. She continued to dance along in good humor, but anger coiled in Dwalin's chest. Not just anger, but something else, something new and painfully infuriating.

Mahal, he was jealous. What was the matter with him? He would confess to no one, although Balin guessed, but there was no sense in trying to lie to himself. Lív awoke a spark of something deep inside him that he had not thought even existed anymore. It was probably best to just let it go and forget about her, but he was drawn to her in a way he wasn't entirely sure he _could_ forget.

She looked up and spotted him gaping at her like a fool. Her bright smile more than made up for being caught so. When the dance was over, she finally pulled herself away from the others and wove through the crowd to his side.

"Captain Dwalin," she said with the little curtsy she so liked to give him, "how do you do this evening?"

"I do fine." He glanced briefly from her to the dancers behind her. "You shouldn't let them bully you into dancing. You're not at their mercy." The lads had found another maiden to wrangle into their dance and seemed not to feel Lív's loss. Idiots.

"Oh, they are innocent. We dwarrowdams are so few, it seems cruel not to dance with one who wishes it."

"Ah, the sweet generosity of a woman's pity."

She laughed prettily. "Pity has done much for many a man's start with a woman."

He exhaled a short laugh of his own. "Well do we know it."

Her dark hair had been pulled up into loose braids at the back of her head, with cunning little wisps left hanging down to tempt a man to touch them. He could reach up and curl a lock around his finger so easily. He wanted nothing more than to take her hair down and run his fingers through the length of it.

He blinked hard. He didn't notice dwarf-maidens' hair. He was thinking like one who had taken too many hits to the head from an orc cudgel.

But if he didn't look at her hair, then he found himself looking into her green eyes, and that was dangerous territory. Her demeanor was open and free, with a fiery spark of tenacity to her. He could not think of another dwarrowdam who would have shown such boldness with him as she had in the healing rooms.

"I'm sure you, yourself, do not dance." Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at him. Did she want him to ask her for a dance? He couldn't even remember the last time he had danced.

"What makes you so sure?"

"You just don't strike me as the type to go in for such things. Enjoyment, and the like." One corner of her mouth turned up delectably. She was teasing him. Anyone else doing such a thing...well, no one else would dare try. The feelings that rose up inside him in response were pure foolishness.

He leaned closer to her as though to confide a great secret. "I am never happier than when I am not enjoying myself." She laughed again and damn him if the sound of it didn't make him want to ask her to dance right then.

"I trust your leg has mended well?" She smiled up at him and he could see she was in earnest.

"Aye, though I cannot say the same for my trousers. They're beyond repair." Mahal, was he talking of trousers again? He was as bad as Kíli.

"I'm afraid I don't have a salve for that." She paused and her brows knit together in sudden concern. She reached out to touch his arm but stopped before she did so. "Are you all right?"

He shook himself as though he could shake off the lad's memory, but it wouldn't do. "I'm fine, though I think I've had about all the merrymaking I can handle for one evening." He smiled at her, but he could see from her unchanged expression that it wasn't convincing. Probably wasn't a smile, either. "Excuse me."

He turned from Lív and strode through the crowd. He nodded to Búri as he passed, but thankfully the newlywed was much too engrossed in his bride to be concerned at his captain's early departure. Once out in the corridors, Dwalin felt he could breathe again. He stormed through the empty hallways, wishing he could empty the memories from his mind.

 _Kíli, his head thrown back in laughter at some forgotten joke._

 _Kíli, his head thrown back as he lay beside Fíli where they fell trying to protect Thorin._

What he wouldn't give to come across an orc just then. He would tear it limb from limb with his bare hands and enjoy every blessed moment.


	4. Chapter 4

One afternoon when her duties were minimal, Lív wandered aimlessly about the market stalls. There was little she needed that wasn't provided to her through her position, but it was a pleasant distraction to browse for some object she might want for herself. Erebor's market lanes were thriving and had doubled in size since she first arrived in the Mountain. It seemed each visit brought her attention to another vendor setting up shop beneath a bright new sign.

She was inspecting a carved wooden jewelry box she had absolutely no use for when she suddenly found a silver fox's head barking in front of her face. Stepping back in surprise, she narrowly contained a cry of fright. From behind the fox head, Askel laughed in delight at her discomposure.

"You should see your face!" He was almost bent double, he was laughing so hard. "Even better than the reaction I got from Amâd and Astra."

She could see now that the fox head was attached to a fine stole he had snagged from an adjacent stall - its lack of eyes should have tipped her off. As far as his pranks went, it was actually a pretty good one, but she felt foolish to be startled so by a fancy wrap. "What if I had been armed? I might have run the fox through, and you as well."

"You are never armed, Lív." He tossed the stole onto the table where he'd found it, ignoring the angry glares from the merchant to whom it belonged. "I don't think you even know how to use a sword."

"I am a dwarf of the Iron Hills, of course I know how to use a sword. A bow, too, for that matter." Her skills were rusty to say the least, but that hardly needed to be mentioned.

"I've never seen you use one." Askel's simple retort was innocent yet galling. Why would there ever have been a need for her to demonstrate such a thing?

"There are a great many things you haven't seen that still exist despite your ignorance of them." Was she having an argument with a child? Why, yes she was, and in public, no less. Askel shrugged his shoulders, their conversation apparently too boring to retain his interest.

"Is your mother with you?" she asked him.

"They're over there, looking at fabrics." He pointed across the market to one of Erebor's mid-range textile shops where Runa and Astra sorted through sumptuous piles of cloth.

Lív and Askel quickly crossed the lane to stand behind the others. It was obvious the lad was scheming another surprise attack but rather than alert her friends to his presence, she let him have his fun.

"Rahr!" he shouted as he poked his fingers into his sister's sides. She shrieked as she turned around, smacking him full in the face in the process. He was unharmed and laughed all the harder at the violence of her surprise.

"That's not how one treats a lady!" She scowled at her brother for all she was worth.

"You're not a lady," he said with a good natured laugh.

"I am a lady!" Astra stamped her little foot, which only set her brother to laughing harder.

"Ladies do not shriek," Astra's haggard mother scolded. "Nor do polite young dwarves antagonize their sisters in the market." To Lív, she gave an apologetic smile. "I hope we aren't ruining your visit."

"Of course not. I came to the market for entertainment, and it has certainly provided that."

Astra gave her brother one last haughty glare before turning to Lív. "Amâd's to make me a new dress. Do you like the fabric?" She held up a bundle of soft fabric the color of lilacs and caressed it lovingly.

"It's very pretty, Astra. You're lucky your mother is so skilled." Lív had little in the way of sewing skills herself, unless one counted all the wounds she had closed over the years. She largely relied on the efforts of Erebor's seamstresses for her own garments.

"I wanted to invite you to have dinner with us next week, if you think you can handle such a thing." Runa juggled her few parcels with one eye fixed firmly on Askel, as though her glare alone could keep him in line.

"I'd be happy to, just tell me when." Lív reached out to catch Astra's bundle of fabric before it could fall to the floor. The girl was tracing her hands over other piles of cloth and paying no attention to what had already been purchased for her. Lív handed the parcel to Askel, who took it absently.

"Amâd, you said we could go down to the blacksmiths' stalls and look at swords." He tugged on his mother's sleeve but must have sensed the immaturity of such an action. He straightened up, coughed into his fist, and tried again. "Mother, if you and Astra are finished with your business here, could we visit the blacksmiths' stalls?"

Lív passed her hand before her mouth to hide a smile at Askel's sudden show of sophistication. The lad was in that awkward age between dwarfling and adolescent, when from one day to the next he did not know if he wanted more to be coddled or have his independence. He could easily slip from teasing his sister mercilessly to lecturing her on the juvenile nature of her own habits, and back again.

Runa sighed so that Lív wondered how long they had been in the market already. "Yes, Askel, we can go to the blacksmiths' stalls, but we are looking only. If you so much as touch a weapon, you will not be able to sit for a week."

Astra giggled at her mother's threat, but Askel nodded his head solemnly.

"I'm sorry, Lív, but I did promise him." The dwarflings were already dragging their mother away as she spoke. "I'll let you know about next week."

Lív waved goodbye as the family departed. She resumed wandering the market stalls, taking her time to caress dozens of fabrics too lovely for her simple purposes, inspect handmade wares from cutlery to finely carved furniture, and smell every delectable food imaginable. Ultimately she walked away from the stalls empty handed, although with the food it was a close thing. It was nearly time for tea, as her growling stomach reminded her.

Leaving the market lanes, she crossed Erebor's vast main corridor, intending to return to her own chamber. At the same time, Dwalin entered the hall opposite her, along with two companions. She smiled and nodded but thought it unlikely he would stop to talk when so accompanied. In this she was wrong, for he called out to her almost at once. She stopped and the three dwarves met her in the middle of the corridor.

"Lív," Dwalin said with a twinge of a smile, "how are you?"

"I am well, thank you." As long as no trace of a blush touched her cheeks, anyway.

His gaze flashed from her to the balcony high above them, and back down again. "Were you in the market, or up to your usual spying?" At this, the shortest dwarf among them turned curious eyes up to him but said nothing.

Perhaps his companion thought it rude, but she could only take pleasure in his teasing. "I was in the market, for I currently have no patients on whom to spy, unless you have an injury you're hiding away."

"I'm sound enough." He paused and she thought the party might move on. Instead, he cleared his throat. "Lív, may I introduce my brother, Balin, and our cousin, Óin."

She was surprised that he would make her the honored party in their introductions, but it was an even greater compliment when she realized to whom she was speaking.

"Balin," said the shortest one, "at your service."

"Óin," said the other, "at your service."

In her turn, she bowed and said, "Lív, at yours."

"So this is the lass with the magical balm." Óin stepped a bit closer and pointed a brass ear trumpet in her direction.

Even second-hand praise from Dwalin caught her off guard. "It's an old concoction of my father's, actually. I'm only too glad it works so well."

"I'll say it works well," Óin said, drawing out the word. "From his reports, that bite healed faster than any other he's had."

"Well," she said with a shrug, "the warg was just a pup." Dwalin erupted into brief laughter, much to her satisfaction.

Balin positively beamed at her. "It's good to finally meet you, Lív. I've been telling my brother for years that he should have a healer tend his injuries, but he's always preferred to lick his wounds like a growling dog." He clapped his brother on the back, apparently trying to ease the scowl that had appeared on Dwalin's face. "Perhaps now he'll be content to have someone more competent tend to him."

Lív smiled but held her tongue. She had much to say on the topic of Dwalin's self-care but thought he might already regret introducing her to his companions.

"Where were you off to, lass?" Balin asked.

"I was just headed to my chambers for tea."

"Oh, that won't do, come along and join us." Balin's friendly demeanor would brook no refusals.

She glanced to Dwalin to see whether he approved of this invitation or no, but it was quickly taken up by Óin. "Yes, do. Indulge three old dwarves the company of a pretty young lass, if only for an hour or two."

"You're just hoping to get the recipe for that ointment," Balin scolded.

"That I am." Óin grinned at Lív.

That made invitations from two of the three. She had already made up her mind to join them but would feel more comfortable if the third were to make his wishes known as well.

"Will you join us?" Dwalin asked, the gruffness of his voice not masking the hint of apprehension that she wouldn't.

"I'd be happy to." Another smile lit her features, but she tried to divide it evenly among the three as though it were for none of them in particular.

Balin held his crooked elbow out to her. "As we're headed to my chambers, I get the honor of having you on my arm." He shot Dwalin a satisfied grin.

Balin made free to chatter to her the whole way, speaking lightly on several topics. He spoke with her as though they were old friends, his easy banter never betraying that he held the second-highest position in the kingdom as Steward to Dáin. Despite his title, nothing about his manners were lofty as they strolled along together.

She had rarely been in the royal corridors. Once in a great while, King Dáin - or more likely one of his advisors - thought to invite the healers to dine at court. Healers among dwarves were considered skilled craftsmen but held no particular rank, and as such, they had no particular value to Dáin unless he himself needed care. She had taken no pains to ingratiate herself among the highest of Erebor's society, and as a result, she knew little of it.

She had seen nothing of the corridors beyond the short hallway to the royal dining hall, and had never entered the residential chambers at all. Here, guards were stationed at intervals all along the corridor. They looked surprisingly young and inexperienced compared to the great dwarves who now passed them. Glancing at Dwalin behind her, the thought of any two of these dwarflings besting him was laughable. He caught her look and raised one curious eyebrow. She smiled, but her thoughts were not to be drawn out.

Finally Balin threw a door open and ushered them into his suite of rooms. He had the largest chambers she had seen in the Mountain. From the sitting room she could see a dining room, an expansive pantry, kitchen, and what she guessed to be a den, with even more rooms beyond. In the Iron Hills, her father had owned similar chambers, but she herself did not yet rate high enough as healer to have earned such luxury. Perhaps in another forty years.

"Do sit down," Balin told her with a wave towards the chairs. "We'll arrange it all in the sitting room, if you don't mind. Cozier in here, I think." He looked about, almost as though seeing the room for the first time.

With that, the three males busied themselves about the pantry and kitchen to bring out stores of meat, cheeses, breads, and cakes to lay on the table before her. At her ease, Lív took in her surroundings, where maps and artwork hung about the room in equal measure. She thought the room well appointed without crossing the line into ostentation. Balin hardly seemed like a dwarf for putting on airs, but one never really knew.

She had made herself comfortable on one of the settees, so Dwalin took the armchair next to her while Balin and Óin sat on the settee opposite. After a quick word from Balin to bless the food, they all tucked in. It was a glorious meal. She was not in dire straits by any means, but she did not often lay out so much good food for herself all in the same meal, and rarely had she shared a meal eaten with such enthusiasm as this simple tea.

There was little talk until they had all eaten their share and beyond - it was considered poor form to interrupt a dwarf at his plate unless you were offering additional helpings. Finally, Balin poured tea and passed mugs around. He sat back in the settee, mug in hand, watching Lív with a small smile.

A groan of satisfaction escaped his lips. "That was delightful. Now we may have the pleasure of getting to know you better, Lív."

She held her mug in her lap. "What do you wish to know?"

"You are obviously from the Iron Hills. Is the rest of your family here in Erebor?"

"No, it is just me."

His mug paused halfway to his mouth. "Your father thought it acceptable for you to come to the Mountain alone?"

She smiled at Balin but could not tell if the look of polite shock on his face was genuine or affected. "You imply I am still young enough to be under my father's care, and I thank you for the compliment."

"You cannot be far beyond it," Óin scoffed.

Lív chanced a glance at Dwalin, who thankfully had nothing to say on her age. "I must confess, I have been a healer nearly forty years."

"You don't look a day over seventy," Balin said with appropriate amazement.

She laughed outright and raised her mug of tea to him. "I should dine with you more often, Master Balin."

"Indeed you should." His eyes twinkled as he looked from her to his silent brother. "But we were speaking of your family."

"My parents chose to remain in the Hills. Father is a healer, as well, and he thought it his duty to stay with those who would not remove to Erebor." She wondered that Balin did not already know this in his position. That he might be making conversation to make up for Dwalin's lack of it was oddly flattering, in a roundabout way.

"A family of healers, then," Óin said, his brass ear trumpet pointed into the middle of the room. "Sadly, I myself have no children to pass the lore onto."

"Nor have I," Lív said, "but that doesn't stop me from sharing what I know."

"I'm afraid I'm no use for such things these days," Óin said, catching her hint. "I've quite lost the heart for it. I thought it best to allow you younger folk to carry on."

"You are welcome to join us any time," she told him. "I'm sure there is a great deal we could learn from you."

He nodded politely at her invitation but seemed disinclined to take her up on it. She had often wondered why the oldest healer in the Mountain had given up his work and, indeed, had never set foot in the healing rooms.

"Why did you come to Erebor alone, may I ask?" It was the first Dwalin had spoken since the beginning of the meal.

"Adventure." She smiled at his look of surprise. "What dwarves have heard the tales of Erebor and not longed to see it? I was no different. And with so many from the Hills streaming to the Lonely Mountain, there was little reason to stay behind." The desolation she felt when her thriving city had dwindled away to the size of a village in less than a year had been beyond what she could endure. "I could not bear the empty loneliness of caverns once so filled with life."

Under the curious gazes of the three males, she shrugged self-consciously. "So now I live here, where there is a perfect gluttony of life."

"Not nearly enough life for my taste," Balin said. "We lost too many in the Battle of Five Armies."

"We dwarves were already too few as it was," Óin pointed out. "We must set to work wooing and making more bairns if we are to be a strong kingdom again. Otherwise, we'll be nothing more than a sad collection of infirm and elderly dwarves like the ones you see before you."

"Speak for yourself," Dwalin said with a grumble.

"I'm sure no one would mistake the Captain of Erebor for infirm," Lív soothed.

"Note she says nothing of _elderly_ , Brother." Balin and Óin laughed together over the discomfort on Dwalin's face.

Lív grew uncomfortable in her turn. "I don't think you're -"

"Don't trouble yourself," Dwalin said, interrupting her hasty apology. "That bait was for me, not you." He glared at Balin before returning a softer gaze to her. "Do you miss the Iron Hills?"

Lív often missed the easy freedom she'd had of knowing the precise location of every rock, root, and tree in the Hills. After three years in Erebor, she still fumbled her way around the corridors from time to time. The air, too, was different in the Hills, fresher, somehow. But did she truly miss it?

"No. I miss my parents, but I can hardly miss the Hills. Almost everyone I've ever known lives here now, and the Lord of the Iron Hills is now my King. I could hardly have asked for an easier removal."

All three of her companions seemed saddened at her words. She realized the insensitivity of her comment only too late. "Oh, forgive me. I did not think."

"It's all right, lass," Balin said. "As you may know, we were among the original party to Erebor. It's no secret that we had hoped to live under a different king once the Mountain was taken."

Her careless words shamed her. "I'm sorry."

"You meant no harm," Dwalin said.

"I'm sorry for your loss, then. Sorry for the loss of your friends and your king."

He inclined his head in her direction, acknowledging her sympathy.

She had heard the stories of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to retake Erebor, as all in the Mountain had. It had always been a distant thing to her, like a theory unproven, until she saw the truth of it in the sorrow of these dwarves' faces.

A pall of grim silence hung over them. Lív gazed into her mug, casting about for something to say, but all she could think of was the cruelty of her own hasty words. Thorin and his nephews had died in the Battle of Five Armies, wiping out the direct line of Durin. Dáin would never have ascended to the throne had such tragedy not struck.

"Well, now, we've put a damper on our merry party, haven't we?" Balin said with a smile that seemed rather forced. "Shall we liven things up a bit by speaking of the next Grand Celebration?"

Lív groaned inwardly at the mere mention of it. King Dáin was fond of celebrations and feasts for the slightest of reasons. Since claiming the throne of Erebor, he had established a Grand Celebration for each season. The next was but a few weeks away, and would herald the dark seclusion of wintertide in the Lonely Mountain.

Lív had long avoided Dáin's celebrations for the simple fact that he enjoyed nothing more than when they became completely out of hand. She enjoyed a good ale as much as the next dwarf, but cheering on drunken warriors in their wrestling matches held no interest for her whatsoever. An unpleasant sensation went through her at the idea that Dwalin might participate in such activities. She eyed him skeptically. Surely he would never go in for such nonsense. Then again, he would certainly beat any opponents handily. The thought of seeing Dwalin in action was actually quite -

He raised his eyebrows at her. Her mind raced to remember what was last said. "I am already preparing for the Celebration by shoring up my supply of restoratives to dispense the next morning."

"I hope you will reserve a dance for me," Balin said with a wink.

An uncomfortable laugh bubbled out of her chest. "I don't usually attend the Celebrations."

"Don't attend?" Óin repeated, thrusting the ear trumpet closer as though he had not heard properly. "Maidens must attend, else who will the lads dance and flirt with?"

"Ah, flirt?" Lív's voice was strangely high pitched. Óin was worse than any two old dwarrowdams for catching a girl off her guard and speaking of wooing and flirting and making bairns.

"Come, now, Miss Lív," Balin said, "if you attend, you'll have three ready dance partners in us."

"I don't dance," Dwalin said, folding his arms. She turned to him at the suddenness of his declaration. "I don't go in for such enjoyment."

She had to grin at the sparkle in his eyes as he repeated her own playful remarks.

"Well, then, you'll have two dance partners," Balin amended, "as the third looks on with a sour expression on his face." He chuckled in his brother's direction but Dwalin was still looking at her.

"I'll consider it, then." She could hardly poke fun at Dwalin's stern demeanor among merrymakers when she, herself, sought to avoid the same antics entirely.

"Do consider it," Balin said, "I should very much like to see you there."

The conversation veered from topic to topic until Lív realized it was far later than she had thought. After thanking her hosts for the tea and their company, she took her leave. Dwalin offered to walk her back to her chambers, which she accepted. He did not, however, offer her his arm as his brother had, and they strolled at their leisure.

"You said you don't go to the Celebrations." He cast her a sidelong glance. "It can't be for a dislike of dancing, for you danced aplenty at Búri's wedding."

She smiled but sighed dramatically. "In the Iron Hills, Dáin encouraged rampant impertinence." She scrunched her nose up at the word. It was not quite the one she had intended.

"Impertinence?" Dwalin affected shock. "The scandal."

She gave him a stern look. "Drunken brawls. Ridiculous competitions of strength and endurance. Setting one male against another for a female's attentions. The infirmary would be so crowded with injured revelers after his celebrations, I lost all desire to participate in them."

He looked at her from beneath his heavy brows. "Understandable, I suppose. Though you'll have to tell me more about these ridiculous competitions of strength and endurance."

She gave him a crooked smile. "My favorite was the time Dáin offered one thousand pieces of gold to any dwarf who could lift his throne." Dwalin laughed - the throne was solid stone. "I treated three foolish dwarves who pulled muscles they really would have rather not injured."

"That does sound impertinent."

She laughed at his teasing tone and smacked his arm with the back of her hand. It was done in an instant or she might have second-guessed herself. As it was, he gave her a sly smile which sent her stomach tumbling.

When they reached her small chambers adjacent to the healing rooms, she turned to face him. "Thank you for the invitation to tea, Dwalin." She tested out using his name without the title and found it rolled all too easily off her tongue.

He nodded but didn't depart. Resting one hand on the doorframe, he leaned slightly closer to her. "Impertinences aside," he said, a smile tugging at his lips, "if you do attend the Celebration, will you let me claim a dance?"

 _As many as you like_ , was on the tip of her tongue, but she sought to temper herself. She grinned at him all the same. "I look forward to it."

His smile broadened and he nodded once before he took his leave. It was only after she was inside her own chambers and leaning securely against the door that she remembered his repeated declarations that he didn't dance.

#

Four dwarves burst into the healing rooms carrying a fifth between them as they called out for aid. Lív and Vestri rushed to them as they laid the injured dwarf on a cot. The boy was young, much younger than Askel. His left shoulder had been rent from his neck in a deep blow, and he had another gash on his stomach where his entrails protruded. The boy was clad in simple garb that provided no protection from the blade that had lashed out at him. His breath was labored and he was not conscious. All this she saw in an instant.

"Who is he?" She tore away at his garments that she might have easier access to his wounds. They were far worse than she had thought at first glance. Too deep and too filthy.

"Heri. A merchant's son returning from the Iron Hills with his father." One of the dwarves who had brought him in spoke slowly, staring at the young boy on the cot as though unable to believe what he saw. "The father and three others were cut down by orcs. Heri's the only survivor."

Lív and Vestri worked to staunch the boy's blood loss, but it was not to be done. His red blood seeped above and pooled below, despite their best efforts to contain it. Even if they could stop the blood, his body was broken beyond repair. Nothing could heal injuries so desperate.

"This is beyond my skill," Lív whispered, pressing against the shoulder wound as though she could somehow knit Heri's flesh and bones back together.

Vestri placed his hand on Lív's arm. "He is beyond any of us now."

Stunned, she looked at the boy and saw that the life had fled from him even as she tried to save it. She looked to the dwarves who had carried him in. Had all this happened in a moment?

"Will you notify his mother?" she asked.

"Aye, we'll go now," one of them answered softly.

Lív nodded and the four dwarves quietly departed the healing rooms. Vestri, too, left to notify the workers in the Halls of the Fathers to come and collect the boy's body. Left alone with him, she covered Heri's wounds with a sheet and pulled up a chair beside his body. She stroked his stilled brow and held his small hand in hers, trying to silence all the thoughts in her mind.

In time, a dwarrowdam was led to the infirmary by one of those dwarves who had carried Heri to the healing rooms. The blank look on her face showed her shock at the news he had brought - her husband and son, both lost in a single day. She slowly approached Heri's body, her eyes desperately moving from him to Lív, as though pleading with her to say there had been some mistake, that her son was only asleep.

When she reached her son's side, the dwarrowdam nodded in acceptance of the awful truth, and at last her tears began to fall. Lív gave her room as she pressed kisses to her son's cheeks and hugged his poor, broken body. She hardly knew what to do for the woman's sorrow, so she placed one hand on her shoulder for comfort. Immediately, the dwarrowdam spun and embraced Lív, clinging to her for solace as she sobbed against her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," Lív whispered. It was empty and meaningless, but it was all she could think to say. She closed herself off to the emotions that sought to crash over her. She couldn't break down - it was all she could do to hold the weight of this grieving mother's tears, she could not add her own to the heavy load.

As Heri's mother cried in her arms, out of the corner of her eye Lív saw Dwalin enter the infirmary. He spoke for some time with the dwarf who had found Heri and the others. Suddenly the infirmary was crowded as the dwarrowdam's friends and relations poured in to join with her in mourning. The sobbing mother turned from Lív's arms to another's, and the group huddled together in their grief. Lív slipped away to the edge of the healing rooms.

Dwalin was at her side in a moment. "How are you holding up?" His voice was gentle but his eyes harrowed her, they were so filled with concern.

"I'm fine." She had to turn her eyes from his. She longed to confide in him, but she would not do so here and now, not while the boy's mother still sobbed over his body.

He watched her too long and too keenly. She bore it, but refused to meet his gaze. He already knew she was crumbling, he did not need to see the proof of it.

"May I visit you tomorrow?" His voice was soft and tender, as though he feared just the sound of it might break her. She would not have him thinking her so fragile.

Finally meeting his eyes, she nodded. "Thank you." Her voice was surprisingly steady.

Dwalin left the healing rooms with a fleeting glance at her over his shoulder. Once he was gone, she sat on a cot and tried to keep visions of broken little boys from her mind.

#

It had not been hard to track the orcs from where they killed the merchants. They must have thought they were too far from Erebor for any to know what they had done, for they left a trail of gore and supplies in their wake. Perhaps they were simply too reckless to care. When Dwalin and the others came upon them their shock quickly turned to anger, but they were too few to stand a chance against the dwarves' wrath.

Dwalin killed three of the orcs in the first minutes. If orcs listened to sense, if they ever cared to sit and have a chat, he might have told them all the reasons he had for cleaving them in two. He might have shown them his righteous anger that they would kill a child too young to wield a weapon. He might have lectured them that they had no place in the lands of Dwarves and Men. He might have shouted out the names of all his loved ones killed by their kind, from his father, Fundin, on down to Fíli and Kíli. But orcs did not listen to sense or reason, so he swung at them with all the strength he had until the last of their blackened hearts were rent and stilled.

Returning to the Mountain, his rage eased, but not his frustration. Those merchants had been too few to make such a journey alone and unarmed. Dáin needed to put an end to such foolish notions and require armed escorts for any travelers to and from the Hills. The king was content to think the orcs posed little threat - he still thought them defeated, despite the ongoing raids. The orcs were desperate, that was plain, and likely starving if what was left behind of the merchants were any indication, but they were not yet defeated.

Dwalin would see to it that they were.

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A big thank you to everyone reading, following, & reviewing who thinks that Dwalin deserves more love than he gets.


	5. Chapter 5

The following day, the healing rooms were unbearable in their emptiness and quiet. Ordinarily, empty healing rooms were a pleasure that meant the residents of Erebor were in good health. That day, they were only a grim reminder of the loss of one so young.

Lív went about her work in the rooms as a ghost. She had not taken a loss this much to heart since her first years as healer. In those days, she was still convinced that she or her superiors could truly heal everyone of anything, so death was a shock whenever it came. In time, she grew more accustomed to death as a simple fact of life. She did not find joy in it, but neither did she any longer hate or fear it.

Even so, Heri's loss shook her to her very center. His death was grotesquely unfair. He had not been a warrior, armed and ready for battle, but a small, defenseless boy. He was not the first defenseless boy to be brutally cut down, but that did nothing to ease her sense of loss. Grief would not be held back, but demanded free reign. When she felt she was about to break, she excused herself from the healing rooms and rushed blindly through the corridors of the Lonely Mountain.

She stumbled towards her one refuge. As usual, the Greenway was abandoned. It had never made sense to her how a place so simple and lovely could be so overlooked. One was more likely to find dwarves admiring the gilded Gallery of the Kings than the subtle Greenway. Today she was grateful, for the Greenway's emptiness meant solitude and solace.

She walked for only a few minutes before she slumped against a wall and slid to the floor. From that vantage, she could see nothing of the giant cavern filled with dwarves going about their business, ignorant of Heri's death. The sounds of the folk below mingled together until they were a senseless, soothing murmur in her ear.

She shut her eyes and listened to the life that thrummed through the Mountain. The very abundance of life she had sought in Erebor now felt like a knife to her heart. She had seen death many times and thought she had hardened herself to it. Now she learned the pain had only been held at bay, waiting for the final crack that would break through her stoicism to crush her in its waves.

Her mind was numb to the passing of time. Eventually the sound of heavy footsteps approached. She did not open her eyes, but merely pulled her feet up under her skirts, hoping whoever it was would pass her by. Instead, there was a rustle and small groan of someone sitting down beside her.

She opened her eyes to see it was Dwalin who had sought her out. Having him with her was a comfort for which she wouldn't have thought to ask. He looked straight across to the Greenway on the opposite side, as though giving her some measure of privacy in her grief.

It was the closest he had ever been to her. She gazed at the scar that cut through his right eyebrow and side of his nose. It was lucky that the knife - or whatever it had been - had not struck his eye out. The depth of the scar said it had been a close thing.

He wore several silver ear cuffs that were covered lightly by the mass of dark hair that fell from just over his ears. Among his dark locks a few strands of silver-grey stood out, the only indication that this hale dwarf was no strapping youth.

After allowing some minutes of her close scrutiny, he turned to face her.

"Lass." His voice was soothing and gently scolding all at once.

No words came to defend herself as silent tears fell down her cheeks. She pressed the back of her head against the wall behind her and stared up into the dark recesses of the cavern. The unfairness of Heri's death gnawed at her until it seemed a tangible thing inside her. Had she not always known that life and death were unfair? How long ago now had she first learned that lesson?

He ducked his head slightly as though to get a closer look at her. "Have you not seen death before?"

"Not like this. Not one so young." Every breath she took sent an ache through her heart. "How can they be so cruel as to cut down a child?"

The tenderness that had been in Dwalin's eyes clouded over. "Orcs have no heart. No mercy."

Imaginings of what Heri's last moments must have been like flashed through her mind. Terror and confusion, then nothing but pain. It was awful to think of, but she couldn't seem to resist the vision.

"It'll be small consolation to you, but the band of orcs have been taken care of." His voice was gentle, though his meaning was not.

She had thought many times in the night how much she would like to kill those orcs. In her dreams, she had set Dwalin's axes against orc flesh until they came back dripping with blood. The knowledge that it had been done brought no comfort.

"He was just a boy, like Lofar," she said. The words tumbled out, driving her to confession. Dwalin's dark brow furrowed, confusion and curiosity plain in his glance.

She drew in a deep breath to brace herself. "I had a brother." Her voice was low and broken. "He was killed, so long ago now it seems foolish to mourn as though it were yesterday."

Dwalin took her small hand up into his own. They had hardly touched since she grabbed his arm on the day they first met. His skin was hot as before and rougher than she had imagined, but the gesture was a comfort. He clasped her hand in both his own and she seemed to draw courage from him.

"He was outside the halls with three friends, just dwarflings, and they strayed too far. Easterlings butchered them all. I feel the loss of my brother as though it was new, and I..." She trailed off, not knowing what more there was to say as hot tears coursed down her cheeks once more.

Dwalin did nothing but hold her hand in silence. All she could think of was Heri and his small, rent body. Was that how Lofar had looked when his body was found? She had pressed all thoughts of Lofar's death so far down within her, she thought them gone. She remembered him only in his short life, never the manner of his death. Now it seemed she could think of nothing else.

When at last she felt spent of tears, she wiped their traces from her face to collect herself. "Forgive me."

"There's naught to forgive. I, too, have lost ones too young." His gaze returned to the Greenway across the chasm, but he did not let go her hand. His deep voice was soft and quiet. "There were two lads I cared for as though they were my own flesh and blood. I did everything I could to prevent their deaths." He paused a moment but his faraway gaze never wavered. "They died anyway.

"Those lads should not have fallen. I should have fallen before ever they did. So, too, did their uncle, my oldest and closest friend, fall that day. I couldn't save them, but for months -" he gave a short, bitter laugh, "no, for _years_ I have mourned them as though their deaths were my fault. Could I not have been a moment sooner? Could I not have ordered soldiers to protect them? Could I not?" The anguish in his voice was painful to hear.

He did not cry at this confession of his own heartbreaking loss but bore it as though he had long grown used to such suffering. The dwarf at her side was so much more than his imposing figure or harsh demeanor. He had a heart full of love and grief and pain to outmatch anyone's.

He turned his eyes on her again. "Take time to lament, but don't torment yourself. This grief will eat you up inside until you're an empty shell if you let it. I know."

He briefly cupped her cheek in his hand. "You are strong enough to walk through it."

That he would have such confidence in her bore her up. She gave him as stout a nod as she could manage and squeezed the hand she held in response. A smile touched his lips before he turned his gaze to the Greenway once again. She also stared out across the way, and a sigh escaped her.

She would come right again.

#

In the following days, Lív mourned, she lamented, but she walked through it. Her heart still ached for Lofar, but she did not let the grief wear her away. So, too, did she endure her sorrow for Heri. If she intended to continue on as healer for the halls of Erebor, she must learn to do so. Skirmishes with orcs were unpredictable and brutal, and she must be prepared for any outcome.

She found herself missing the Iron Hills more than she ever had done since arriving in the Lonely Mountain. She thought of not just her early years when she and Lofar were dwarflings, but later on as a healer, too. Those years had been relatively peaceful, mainly leaving her with the task of delivering babies and tending minor injuries. She had treated her share of warriors, but never had she seen so many until she came to Erebor, and rumors swirled that such activity would only continue as orcs came down from the north. The days of peace they thought had been won at the Battle of Five Armies had not yet arrived.

Lív was not left to pull herself back up alone. Dwalin again took to stopping by the healing rooms. They spoke little, but his visits - his very presence - somehow imparted his strength to her as she climbed out of her sorrow.

At first she would force a smile when they spoke, to show him she was not broken. Eventually her smiles and laughter came naturally again, without thought or pretense. Dwalin's brief visits to the healing rooms became the bright center of her days.

At night, she would lie in bed and allow herself to fret over what was kindling inside her. Dwarves were an odd lot when it came to matters of the heart. Many could live their entire lives and never feel a spark of romantic love, nor ever think it a lack. Others, when they fell in love, fell fast and hard and would love no other for all the rest of their days, even if their love could not be returned. She had always thought herself to be of the former camp, pleased with her work in the healing rooms and content with the general scope of her life. Recently, she began to suspect she was of the latter camp, and was fast falling in love with Dwalin.

But what of him? Was he one who never had and never would feel romantic love? Was the whole of his satisfaction to be found in work - in his case, battle? Or was love there, lying dormant in his heart, waiting only for the right someone to wake it up? It was a thing she pondered to no end, and with no satisfactory results. It seemed more than just friendship was building between them, but she could not say for certain.

For most of her adult life, Lív had been secretly glad she was ill suited to falling in love. She had seen first-hand what love could do when it ended badly. Love that could not be shared did not diminish over time until it became a mere memory, but remained forever in bloom in the heart of the lover. Dwarves lived long and she could hardly bear the thought of countless years of unrequited love.

But if it were requited? The powerful bond she had seen when two shared in love was undeniable. Marriage, home, children - something beyond oneself and one's work could be wonderful to experience. But her friends who did marry had done so long ago. Lív was on the edge of mid-life and Dwalin even older. Still, he could have another eighty years before him, possibly well more. Eighty years of love was nothing to scorn.

Perhaps - no, she was not thinking rationally. She rolled over in her bed and clutched at her pillow, shutting her eyes tight against such impossible thoughts.

Impossible, wonderful thoughts.

#

A male dwarf lay on a cot in the infirmary with spatters of blood on his face and neck. Lív worked to carefully remove the small shards of iron that were embedded in his skin. He had learned the hard way to make sure his ironwork was hot enough not to shatter when he struck it with his hammer. This was not the first eager young blacksmith who had made that mistake in her years as healer, but he was one of the luckiest. Such mistakes could cost a careless dwarf an eye.

None of the cuts were dangerous, so she was able to quickly clean and salve them. He looked positively sheepish when she led him out the doors of the infirmary - the smith he worked under was standing in the hallway waiting for him, and likely had a stern lecture in mind for the lad.

Someone else was standing in the hallway who Lív did not expect to see. Óin loitered by the doorway, watching the two blacksmiths take their leave.

She bowed to him. "Master Óin, what a pleasant surprise."

He bowed to her in turn. "It was so good of you to invite me, I thought it only right to accept." He glanced behind her, as though to check for patients. "That is, if you're not otherwise engaged."

"Not at all, I'd be glad to have your company."

Óin walked into the infirmary, looking all about and nodding his approval. "You've got it quite in order, I see."

She let him wander the room as he liked. None of the cots were occupied, and Vestri was off somewhere at his leisure, so they had the place to themselves. Strolling slowly along the aisle between the cots, he looked about as though seeing something else.

"When we first took the Mountain, I went searching for it out of curiosity, you know. It was a dirty shambles then, layered in cobwebs and infested with mice." He made a sour face at the memory. "But this - well, one would be proud to be tended here."

"I'm not sure anyone is ever proud to be tended in the healing rooms," she said with a wry grin. "And I can't take all the credit, the rooms were already cleaned and organized by the time I arrived in the Mountain." She gave him a curious look. "I confess, I thought you had done all that."

He nodded. "Aye, but you've set it up to suit you, now, and I like it better." He had completed his circuit of the room and returned to face her.

"Why don't I put on some tea?" she offered. "We can sit before the fire and relax."

"Oh, only if it's no trouble," he said even as he started towards the fire.

At the far end of the room was a great hearth, with three chairs drawn before it. She set a kettle of water over the fire and prepared a pot with tea before settling into one of the chairs. Óin, too, sat down, and seemed to relax now they no longer faced the infirmary. Whatever memories it held for him could not be pleasant.

He rested one elbow on the arm of the chair to hold his ear trumpet the easier and gave her an arch grin. "Have you given any more thought to the Celebration?"

Reminded that he was hard of hearing, she spoke a bit louder than usual. "You and Balin have quite convinced me. As long as I've no other duties here, I believe I will attend."

"I'm glad of it. None should shut themselves up in the infirmary willingly."

"You're not the first to tell me so." Eir's comments about the _wretched infirmary_ sprang to mind. Was Dwalin ever lectured on spending too much time in the training rooms? She guessed few sought to lecture him on much of anything.

Óin chuckled softly before fixing her with a steady gaze. "I suppose you're wondering why I gave all of this up."

"Aye, that I am." It was not the thought in her mind at that exact moment, but she had pondered it. "I'm grateful for the position I have, of course, but it seems you would be better suited to it."

Óin shook his head. "Not I. Even had all gone as planned, I still wouldn't want it. You said your reason for coming to Erebor was adventure? Mine was rest. I wanted to rest in the halls where my father and grandfather lived."

She smiled at how his words echoed so well those her own father had said when he declared that he and her mother would remain behind in the Iron Hills. _It is not for me to leave the halls of my father and grandfather._

"And things did not go as planned," Óin said sadly, looking wistful in the firelight. "I told you in Balin's chambers that I've lost the heart for it, and that's the truth. I found there are some injuries that can't be healed." He tapped his chest over his heart.

Just then the kettle began to whistle. Óin gestured to it, so she quickly poured the water into the waiting teapot.

She settled back into her chair and gave him a small smile. "I understand if you no longer want to act as a healer, but you are always welcome here. I'm sure you have seen much in your travels that would benefit us."

"For now, I am content to putter around in the halls, free from responsibility." He cast her a sly grin. "There are some advantages to age and infirmity."

"You are quite right." Now the tea had steeped, she poured it for them and passed a cup to him. "We needn't speak of work at all, then. Do you know, I've never been to the Blue Mountains?"

"Never? Oh, lass, the Blue Mountains are greater than any I've yet seen, and I've seen most. You are used to the Iron Hills, which seem grand enough, but they are nothing to the great Blues. They stretch on forever, north to south, and loom over you until you think they've replaced the whole of the sky."

He paused to sip his tea, but his eyes shone bright. "Thorin's halls are not so fine as Erebor - nothing could be - but they are a wonder in their own right. There's a sense of pride in living in a place that you and your kin started from scratch."

"I can only imagine. I've often wondered what it would be like to take the journey west to the Blue Mountains."

"Perhaps one day you will." Óin had a touch of a smile on his lips. "I must tell you, I didn't come here entirely by my own doing. Dwalin has been gently nudging me to pay you a visit. You know how subtly he works." His smile spread into a full grin.

"I suppose I do." She smiled, too, but wasn't sure anything about Dwalin was particularly subtle.

"He means well, of course. But warriors are used to death and have a hard time understanding when others take it to heart." Óin's voice grew somber. "He told me you lost a dwarfling last week."

She nodded, although the implication that _she_ lost him was cutting. "I didn't realize Dwalin thought I had taken it too much to heart." Was she not coming through it quickly enough for him?

"You mistake me." Óin shifted in his chair to face her more fully. "He thought this visit would benefit _me_."

She furrowed her brow, not understanding him at all.

"And it has. I have seen firsthand what I'd only heard about before - that you are the right dwarf for Erebor's primary healer." He smiled generously but she had to laugh.

"You've reached that conclusion by watching me make a cup of tea, have you?"

"Oh, I've seen more than that. I think the Mountain is quite safe in your care."

"I think you're just trying to make me feel better." It was a kind gesture all the same.

Now it was his turn to laugh. "And so I am, though I still mean what I say. I don't regret my choice, and I hope you don't regret yours."

She felt strangely bolstered by his visit, although she couldn't say exactly why. Though they were nothing like, speaking with Óin had brought the same comfort she had often sought in her father's counsel. She could only be grateful for Dwalin's gentle nudges to Óin, whatever his purposes.

Smiling at him, she said, "I don't regret my choice at all."

#

Dwalin was angry.

No, angry was too polite a word for a feeling that tore through him like an axe through flesh. Dáin wouldn't listen. For all his raging about orcs crawling over his lands, Dáin was too satisfied with Dwalin's report that those few had been killed, as though the band that had slaughtered the merchants were the last of the threat. That was always Dáin's answer - _we've seen the last of them._

Yet always the orcs returned. There was no sense to their comings and goings - they roved here and there, seemingly without pattern or forethought. What was their purpose? This ate at Dwalin worse than Dáin's disinterest, this not knowing what the enemy had in mind, if they had anything in mind at all.

He was sharpening his weapons in his den, an activity that usually relaxed him but just now wasn't quite doing it for him. Normally, he enjoyed methodically taking out each axe or sword and carefully running a whetstone over the blade until it could bring blood at the slightest touch. Then he would polish it from tip to hilt, taking pride in every nick and scratch that represented a fallen foe. This task was considerable, for Dwalin had many weapons to tend.

Tonight, somehow, the routine only served to make him more angry. The orcs should be wiped out - he shouldn't have need of sharpening his weapons so often. He was lost in the motions of it when he saw his brother step into the doorway.

"Do you not knock?" Dwalin's voice was a low growl, but it was only for show and Balin knew it.

"I would if I thought you'd answer." Balin came into the den and sat himself down in the chair opposite, watching Dwalin with an amused look all the while. "You're keeping yourself occupied, I see. Something particular on your mind?"

"Aye." He continued to drag the whetstone over the axe blade in slow passes. "I'm wondering what these cursed orcs are up to."

Balin sighed and shook his head. "Frankly, I'm disappointed in you. I was sure your thoughts were taken up with our dear healer."

Dwalin glanced at him but quickly returned his attention to his axe. "My thoughts just now are nothing so pleasant."

"Hmm." Balin yet watched him with that damned smile on his face. He shouldn't have used the word _pleasant_. "What troubles you about the orcs?"

"I can't make them out. A month ago we fought fifty orcs on the northern slopes, last week we wiped out a pack of fifteen heading east. For a time, I thought the ones holed up to the north were simply trying to make their way south. Now I'm not sure."

"You think they're planning something?" It was small comfort that Balin's satisfied smile was gone. Dwalin was not in the mood to be provoked.

"No. Not exactly." He stopped sharpening the axe and gave his brother a hard look. "I think they're desperate. We've got a cold winter coming on, there's snow in the Greys already...a mass of orcs with a plan would be bad enough, but a mass of starving orcs with nothing to lose, that could well prove worse."

Balin nodded and his gaze grew softer. "You're thinking of the village in Dunland."

"Aye." Decades ago he, Balin, and some others were on their way back to the Blue Mountains from a trip to the Iron Hills. It was winter, so they headed towards a village of Men where they often sought food and shelter on the road. Instead of the warm welcome they were used to, they found nothing but gnawed bones and snow running red with blood. These last several days, he'd not been able to get the sight of those merchants out of his head, or the village where a hundred innocents had met a similar fate.

"There's no knowing how many orcs are holed up in the Greys," he said at last.

"We've cut off their access to the south. They either fight the losing battle with us here, turn west to Moria, or..."

Dwalin nodded. "East to the Iron Hills. They've nothing but a few holdouts and a skeleton crew running the mines. It would be easy pickings."

"They have soldiers," Balin began, but Dwalin cut him off.

"Aye, Dáin left a contingent of fifty, but it might not be enough if the orcs were to get it into their heads to take the Hills."

"There's no way of knowing what's in their heads."

Dwalin nodded his agreement. "That's what worries me. I've doubled our scouts on the Mountain. I'm also sending another fifty soldiers to the Hills for the winter."

"They won't like that." There was little to occupy them in the Hills now that most residents had removed to Erebor. Those with families would resent the long separation, and those without would resent the total lack of women.

"No, but I'll sleep better at night with them there."

"And what does Dáin say?"

Dwalin shrugged. "What does he ever say? He thinks I'm overcautious, if there's such a thing when orcs are concerned, but he'll send the soldiers just the same."

Balin nodded slowly again, his eyes on Dwalin. "You're right - those thoughts aren't nearly so pleasant as the mistress of the healing rooms."

Dwalin shook his head slightly, unsurprised that Balin hadn't let that drop. He resumed sending the whetstone over the axe blade, carefully inspecting his work and actively ignoring Balin's soft chuckling.

"Ah," Balin said as he leaned back in the chair, "to have the heart of a young dwarrowdam such as she. That would be something, wouldn't it?"

Dwalin said nothing, though he knew Balin required no answer.

"It's almost enough to make a dwarf hope for an injury."

Shifting the axe in his hand, Dwalin said, "Are you asking, because I'll gladly do the honors."

Balin chuckled all the more at his idle threat.


	6. Chapter 6

After twice putting off Runa's invitation to dinner, Lív decided it was finally time she see her friends again. She had begged off the first two requests, claiming a tough time in the healing rooms, and Runa hadn't questioned her. But waiting any longer would be unfair to her friends, and she knew she needed a break from the confines of the infirmary, Dwalin's visits notwithstanding.

He had taken to stopping by in the early afternoons. If she were unoccupied, he would stay to speak with her a while, although he never accepted her invitations to sit more comfortably by the fire. If she was tending a patient when he arrived, he would simply linger in the doorway until he caught her attention, nod to her once, and depart again. The days they had no chance to speak seemed unbearably dull.

Her knock at Runa's door was answered by Askel, who welcomed her in despite having part of his face obscured by a large black cloth. His grin, at least, was visible, and he bowed to her, only to narrowly miss knocking his head against her shoulder.

She laughed at his antics as she entered the room. "What are you doing, may I ask?"

"I'm building up my warrior reflexes." He moved his hands about in the air as though battling someone, and Lív had to step out of the way to avoid another collision.

"This is how warriors do it, is it?" She smiled fondly at the lad, though he could not see her. She would have scooped him up into a hug if it wouldn't have offended his burgeoning adolescent sensibilities.

"I heard that Captain Dwalin can kill an orc without even looking." Again, Askel stabbed at his foes. His maneuvers were more akin to chopping wood than swinging a sword, but she was not about to tell him so.

"I would imagine Captain Dwalin could kill an orc in his sleep," she said with a wry smile.

Askel whipped the blindfold off his head. "Do you really think so? I bet he could."

Astra rushed into the sitting room and wrapped Lív in a hug. "I missed you. Amâd said you were to come last week, but you never did." The girl turned her big blue eyes up to Lív in reproach. Twinges of guilt pricked at her for neglecting her friends so.

"I'm sorry, my dear, I couldn't get away for a time. But I am here with you now, so I hope I am forgiven." She squeezed the girl all the tighter.

Astra scrunched up her face and seemed to seriously contemplate whether or not to accept this apology. Lív pulled a small parcel from a pocket. "Could I tempt you to forgive me with a peace offering?"

Recognizing the parcel's wrapping, Astra shouted out, "Maple candies!" Askel, too, rushed upon her, now he knew she came bearing gifts.

"You must share them, and wait until after dinner," Lív said. She was caught up in another hug from Astra, and even Askel wrapped his arms around her briefly. The two ran off with their prize as she made her way to the kitchen.

Runa was taking up dinner. "You know those treats will be gone before ever we sit down to eat."

Lív shrugged innocently as she helped dish boiled potatoes onto a plate. "A few maple candies are harmless."

"Hmm." Runa playfully slapped at Lív's hand - once again she was helping with the host's duties rather than sitting back at ease as a guest. Runa put her hands on her hips and examined her. Lív shrank away from such open scrutiny. They had been friends since they were dwarflings and until recently, she had never kept a secret from her.

Runa gave her a hard look. "Will you tell me what has happened with you?"

Lív sighed and looked from Runa down the corridor, making sure no little ears were nearby. "A dwarfling was killed by orcs," she said quietly. She still hated even to think of it. Heri's broken little body was yet vivid in her mind. "They brought him to me, but I couldn't save him."

She turned her eyes back to Runa, pleading for understanding. "I kept thinking of Lofar. I hated to decline your invitations, but I couldn't bear to see the children just then."

Wordlessly, Runa stepped closer to give her a firm embrace. When she pulled away, tears glistened in her eyes. That had not been Lív's intention in relating the story. Her stomach was swept up in sudden waves of guilt - Runa had been through so much already, she didn't need Lív's secondhand sorrow as well.

Runa gave her a tender look that spoke of their many decades of friendship. "This wasn't what you expected when you came to the Lonely Mountain, was it?"

"Not at all," Lív admitted. "I thought the orcs had been defeated. I had no idea they were only hiding away for a time. Although I suppose no one else did, either." How did Dwalin deal with the fact that the very orcs he thought he had wiped out, who his friends had died to defeat, still crawled about their lands?

Runa returned to taking up their meal. "I hope the army will deal with the orcs that did that."

"They have." Lív thought of Dwalin's reassurances on that score. Although she had not asked, something about the way he had told her made her guess that he had taken part in the retaliation.

Runa must have seen something odd in her expression, for she gave her a curious glance. "And how do you know this?"

"I have been spending some time with one of the captains." At this, Runa nearly dropped the plate she had filled with steaming roast beef. Lív was quick to correct her statement. "I don't mean anything like that. One of his warriors was in the infirmary with me for a time, and he visited often. That's all."

"He visited often, did he?" Runa's smirk was barely in check.

"To speak with his soldier," Lív clarified, although she knew this was not the whole truth, nor was it the extent of their time together.

"Of course." Runa sounded entirely unconvinced but thoroughly amused. "He must be very attached to his soldiers."

Lív pursed her lips as she started taking dinner plates to the table. Part of her wanted to confide everything in Runa, but another part of her thought it best to keep as much to herself as possible, lest it turn out her feelings were not returned. For now, she said no more about it and Runa did not press her, although she continued to give her sly looks all through dinner, as though doing so might spur her to confession.

And just what could Lív confess? That she cared for a dwarf whose surly demeanor made him an unlikely object of any dwarrowdam's heart? That she had feelings for the one dwarf in the Mountain who seemed the least likely to return them? He was not what she would have considered an attainable match. Only falling for Dáin himself could have been more absurd.

Yet there it was. Her feelings for Dwalin were such that just thinking of him could bring a pinkness to her cheeks and a warmth in her belly. He made her feel unsteady, as though all she thought she knew of herself weren't quite true in the end. She liked order and control - she wasn't used to feeling so unsure of a situation. She wasn't used to relying on such desperate hope.

Despite warning herself against it, she did hope. She hoped to see him again, hoped he felt the same for her as she did him...she _hoped_. Telling Runa of her feelings would only serve to build her hopes all the more. No, she would confide nothing until - unless - she knew something more of Dwalin's feelings for her.

#

By the time Dwalin and his soldiers reached the pack of orcs the scout had spotted, the filth had turned west to meet them head on. At least thirty orcs rushed toward the dwarves, swords and maces at the ready. He would have words with his scout when he returned to the Mountain - the report had been half that number. Far better to estimate too high than send soldiers into a losing battle. Luckily, Dwalin had brought twenty well-outfitted dwarves. The odds were fair enough.

They all fell to, hacking away at each other in the snowy foothills. He was fighting off two orcs at once when he saw one of his soldiers get struck a harsh blow in the side from an orc club. After cutting down his own opponents, Dwalin took both his axes in his one hand that he might help the wounded soldier up with his other. As he did so, a small and wily orc rushed upon them both, savagely slashing at them with a short dagger. Unthinking, Dwalin put out his palm to protect his soldier's bare head, and the orc's dagger cut through his flesh.

He roared so loudly, the orc cowered. In that instant, he swung his left arm around to hew into the orc with both axes at once. He spat on his fallen enemy as he passed one axe into his wounded hand. His injury was not great, but the searing pain he felt as it rubbed against the axe handle sent him into a wild fury. Even his own soldiers scrambled out of the way in fear as he rushed upon the orcs.

The battle was soon over. As his mind settled from its frenetic pace, he looked over the orcs' foul bodies. They wore a mix of filthy rags and crude armor decorated with bones. One bore braids in its belt as evidence of its kills. Whether the braids were from dwarves or men, Dwalin couldn't say, but the sight made him lodge his axe in the dead orc's skull just for spite. It brought little satisfaction.

His soldiers searched the orc corpses, piling their weapons in a heap to be taken to Erebor and melted down. Anything left behind would be fair game for scavengers, and Dwalin had no intention of leaving anything useful for the next orc that came that way.

One soldier, Hanar, came up to him with a sword in each hand. He held the weapons out for inspection. "We found these among them."

They were weapons of Dale. Dwalin recognized the new kingdom's symbol on their hilts. Whether they had been taken from battle kill or simply stolen, there was no way of knowing.

"Any more?" He stared at Dale's insignia carved into the swords.

"We're still searching."

He nodded and Hanar went back to his unpleasant task of scouring corpses. Their reek stung Dwalin's nose already, and it would only grow worse the longer they lay in the open. The sooner the bodies were piled and burned, the better.

Looking down at the swords in his hands, a stab of guilt cut through him at his own temper tantrum over Bard's request for more arms. These swords were of poor make, probably originally from Laketown, and their age showed, despite the addition of the new insignia. Bard's men couldn't defend their city so poorly armed.

Balin was right - he had been acting like a fool.

All told, the soldiers found four swords and a dagger of Men among the orcs. As he watched the pile of corpses burn, he resolved to speak with Dáin about the trade agreement. It was in everyone's best interest to arm Dale's soldiers with dwarvish weapons as soon as possible.

#

Injured dwarves limped into the healing rooms before ever word came of another skirmish with orcs. Lív set straight to work assessing the wounded warriors. Few sought care, and most of their injuries were superficial, needing little more than a salve and a wrapping, but all would receive attention in their turn. Orc blades were never clean, and even the smallest swipe from one must be carefully tended to prevent festering.

While inspecting the arm of a worn-down warrior, she glanced about the room, but Dwalin was not to be found. This wasn't unusual, for she had not seen him with every group of warriors needing attention in the past. Even so, his absence formed a shadow of worry in the back of her mind.

Hoping to employ her tactic of distraction as well as gain information she very much wanted, she questioned the soldier as she examined him.

"Was it a large band of orcs that you fought?" She slowly maneuvered his arm back and forth, feeling the bones beneath his taut muscles. A purple bruise ran down the length of his arm, turning nearly black at his elbow.

"About thirty."

She touched near his elbow and he winced. "Are there more wounded soldiers?"

He looked around the infirmary and shrugged his shoulders. "Not likely."

He was no more talkative than his captain. She swallowed her pride and got right to the point. "Was Captain Dwalin with you?"

"Aye, Dwalin was bringing up the rear. First to charge out, last to trail in. Oh! That's a wee pinch, there."

A wee pinch, indeed. His arm was broken and needed to be set. Lív left him while she fetched the splints she would use to immobilize his arm. As she did so, Dwalin finally entered the infirmary with a young dwarf leaning heavily on his shoulder. Vestri helped the younger male hobble to an empty cot where he lay down to prop his leg.

Dwalin scanned the room until he met Lív's gaze. Relief flooded through her to see him sound. Splints in hand, she went straight to his side.

"Are you all right?" He did not look tired, let alone wounded, but she needed to know.

"Aye."

She gave him a hard look. He didn't exactly have a history of being forthcoming about his injuries.

His mouth pulled into a smile beneath his beard. "Tend the lads first. I can wait."

Nodding, she smiled in return before resuming her care of the other dwarf's broken arm. She had not realized just how worried she had been until the knowledge that Dwalin was well brought such lightness to her heart. He was a force to be reckoned with, but even the strongest of warriors could fall, as the dwarves of Erebor knew all too well. She shook her head to dislodge the idea - this line of thinking would serve nothing. Dwalin was safe. She need not borrow trouble.

The dwarf whose arm she tended had little to say when she was not plying him with questions. Lív secured his arm in silence, painfully aware of Dwalin's precise location in the room. Her back was to him, but he was clear as day in her mind's eye, arms folded while he watched over his warriors. Did he watch her, too? She couldn't guess but neither would she check. By the time she had finished setting the soldier's broken arm and assessing the rest of his injuries, all the other wounded had been tended.

All except one.

Dwalin stood like a pillar in the center of the room. He was as well-armed as he had been the first day she treated him, but his features were nothing near so harsh. He did not turn away from her as before, but watched her approach with a warmth that pleased her far too well.

"You're my last patient," she told him. "Unless you'd rather look after yourself."

"I've heard that isn't wise." He grimaced as he held his hand out to her. The entire width of his right palm had been sliced open. It was neither grave nor deep but must certainly be painful.

"Oh, Dwalin," she said, gently taking his large hand into both of hers. The wound was an angry red and crusted over with dried blood. He must have been clenching his fist to stem the tide. "Come with me."

Still holding his hand, she led him to a waiting cot. He followed her without argument and sat down - a pleasant improvement since the last time she'd tended him. She paused as she examined the strange gauntlet he wore on his hand. It was a partial leather glove with thick plates of metal over the back of his hand, linked between his wrist and knuckles.

"What are these?" she asked, sliding a fingertip along one of the metal plates. Its sides were intricately carved, but the ends were blunt and showed obvious wear.

He took his uninjured hand and balled it into a tight fist. As he flexed his wrist inward, the metal plates extended forward from his knuckles. She needed no further explanation - every blow of his fists would split flesh and break bones.

"If all else fails, I still have these. _Insult_ ," he said, raising his left fist, "and _Injury_."

His hands would be dangerous enough even without the additions. "How your foes must quake when they see you coming."

"It's the last thing they'll ever see." His eyes sparkled at her with amusement, despite the grim nature of their conversation.

Everything else in the room faded away as Lív unbuckled the small leather straps that held the gauntlet on his wrist. Her mind ran to other items he wore that might be unbuckled so, and heat washed over her from her belly to the tips of her ears. Her heart pounded in her chest until she was sure he could hear its every beat. Although it was a weapon, slipping the gauntlet from his hand seemed intensely intimate.

When finally his hand was bare, she took deep, slow breaths as she collected her supplies. She had a job to do, after all, and it was not ogling warriors. The frantic beating of her heart calmed, but she refused to meet his gaze. If she but looked at him, all her feelings and desires would be laid bare to his view.

She soaked his injury in a shallow bowl to gently remove the dried blood and dirt. He allowed her to sponge at his hand almost as though it weren't a part of him, yet now and then his fingers flexed slightly to brush her own. She thrilled each time he did so and she lingered over washing the wound longer than was necessary. When she could no longer justify cleaning it, she soothed it with a generous amount of healing salve.

It was not until his hand was properly bandaged and her work complete that she turned her eyes to his again. His expression revealed little that she could be sure of. His grey eyes were bright and fixed on her with an attention that startled her, but beyond this she could not say. She thought she saw curiosity there, and maybe something more, but it would be all too easy for her to interpret his gaze any way she liked.

The daze she was in was broken when Vestri walked by Dwalin's cot as he escorted a bandaged warrior from the healing rooms. She tried to brush off her agitation as though it hadn't existed. How could she even entertain such thoughts in the infirmary?

"I trust you know to watch for signs of festering?" She was teasing, but her words came out stiff and unnatural.

"Aye." He stood, entirely too close to her, and her heart raced all over again. It would be so easy to walk right into his arms. Instead, she stepped back to allow him room to pass between the cots, glancing away lest he see everything she felt written on her face. It was probably already too late for concealment.

"Thank you." His words were practically in her ear. A shiver ran through her body in response and she had to cross her arms over her chest to contain it.

"Of course." Her voice was not above a whisper and she smiled again, more out of nervousness than happiness. Dwalin just watched her. He was no fool - he knew how she longed for him. She felt exposed by his gaze, as though she had given voice to her every secret thought.

He left her side and went to one of the dwarves whose arm had just been bandaged. Lív moved about the room, collecting spent supplies and setting cots to rights. She scolded herself for allowing her feelings for Dwalin to be so displayed. At the same time, she couldn't help wishing he had given any indication of his own. As she worked, she convinced herself that any affection between them was all on her side so that, by the time he left the healing rooms with a nod in her direction, she watched him go with an ache of regret in her heart.

..

..

..

A/N: Graham McTavish referred to Dwalin's fists as Insult & Injury in an interview and I ran with it.


	7. Chapter 7

Harsh knocking woke Lív from her dreams and her eyes flew open wide. Rarely had she been called upon in the night, and then almost exclusively due to battles with orcs _._ Pulling a shawl around her shoulders, she rushed to her chamber door.

The torches on either side of her doorway revealed not a dwarf, but a Man, towering over her. She was momentarily confused and startled, but all that washed away when she saw Dwalin and Balin standing behind him. They were fully dressed but looked as disheveled as she felt she must to be woken in the dead of night.

"Pardon me, Miss Dwarf," the Man said, "but King Bard calls for a healer." He was dressed in the garb of a soldier of Dale, and from his composure she guessed he was of high rank in their army.

"Is he ill?" She looked from the Man to the dwarves behind him. All three wore somber expressions.

"No, it is his wife, Inga. She is delivering their child, but the child won't come. Our midwives fear the worst." The soldier's voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed his own fears for his Queen.

"We thought you would be the one to ask, lass." Balin stepped out from behind the Man's tall form. "The situation must be desperate for Bard to call on us."

"Of course I will go. I'll be but a moment." Even as Lív shut her door, a subtle relief swept over the Man's face. She rushed into her bedroom, slipping out of her nightdress on the way and pulling the first dress she found over her head. If the child wouldn't come, they had no time to spare. In an instant, she had gone through her cupboard to select the most appropriate herbs and tinctures for a delivery and set them in a small satchel which she looped over her shoulder.

When she opened her chamber door, the males still stood exactly as she had left them. "I'm ready."

She followed them through empty corridors and stairways until they reached Erebor's main gate. A large horse was tethered there and the soldier quickly pulled its reins free. He then held out his hand to Lív, who shied away. She had never ridden any sort of animal before, let alone a horse that stood taller than this Man.

Dwalin's hand was at her back, gently encouraging her to close the distance between herself and the horse.

"He'll take good care of you," Dwalin soothed before glaring up at the soldier. "Or he'll answer to me." He seemed undaunted that the Man stood head and shoulders over him.

A tight smile crossed the soldier's face. "I'll be answering to more than just you if I do not get her there safely. Come, Miss Dwarf, let's get you up."

With that, he picked Lív up as though she were made of feathers and set her upon the horse's saddle, where she tried to conceal how she clung to it. He climbed behind her on the horse and they were off. She barely had time to register Dwalin's hand raised in farewell before he and all of Erebor had disappeared behind her. The chill night air whipped at Lív's face as they sped into the darkness.

The soldier rode to Dale as though a pack of orcs were on his horse's heels. He never slowed, despite the night being lit only by a crescent moon. Lív had not been on this road since she first arrived in Erebor, but there was little to see even in daylight. A short stretch of nothing lay between Dale and the Lonely Mountain, with nary a tree to be found.

It was not long before the glimmering towers of Dale could be seen in the darkness. Flames were lit within the watchtowers and at either side of the great gate, which stood open in anticipation of the soldier's return. The horse raced straight through the gates and finally slowed as the soldier navigated the winding streets. They arrived at the main hall where the man climbed down from his horse, swiftly bringing Lív down alongside him.

"This way." He ran at a light pace which Lív could barely match. Up stairs and through corridors they dashed until they reached an inner room. Another man paced before a closed door, but he moved to Lív the instant he saw her.

His dark eyes shone with desperation and grief. "Are you the healer?"

"Yes, I am Lív."

He bowed to her and then reached out to take her hands in his. He had black hair pulled back from his forehead, and his face was creased and careworn. "Please help my wife."

"I will do everything I can."

He opened the chamber door for her but did not follow. Once inside, she saw she was in the king's personal chambers. A woman with child lay upon the bed, surrounded by three older women who put wet cloths on her forehead and stroked her hand but seemed to be doing little else. Lív went straight to the queen's side.

"My Lady," she said, "my name is Lív. I'm a healer of Erebor and I'm here to help you."

The woman's dark brown eyes fairly screamed of her fear and pain. "Please," was all she could say through panting breaths.

As Lív set down her things and washed her hands, the other women spoke all at once to apprise her of the situation.

"It's been a night and a day, and still no baby."

"The child is stuck within her."

"His rump is facing out, that is the trouble."

As gently as she could, Lív felt the baby's position. It was true, a little rump was at the opening, rather than a head. If Inga had already struggled to deliver him all evening, he would likely never come out in such a position, and they would both die if Lív did not act.

"We need to turn the baby." The other women looked shocked as Lív used her hands, one on the outside and one on the inside, to feel just how the baby lay inside his mother. The baby shifted his leg at her touch and she breathed a sigh of relief - at least the baby was still alive.

"You can't do that, you'll kill them both," the greyest among them said in a loud whisper. Inga's eyes went wide and her breathing quickened in her fright.

"Say such things again and I will have you removed." Lív wasn't sure she had such power there, but morbid sentiments as that were the last thing Queen Inga needed to hear. "If you have nothing helpful to say, you will be silent."

The midwife looked duly chastened. She then made a sour face but held her tongue.

"I will need an assistant. You," Lív said, indicating the midwife who looked the most steady, "come help me."

Working under Lív's direction, they shifted the baby little by little. They had no time to lose, but it was a slow business and such a maneuver could not be rushed. She had turned several babies in her time, but Dwarves were sturdier folk than Men - she did not know how well the queen could handle the procedure, but it was her only option for survival.

The queen cried out in pain but Lív was deaf to such sounds in the birthing chamber. The two midwives stood off to one side, looking over the scenario with grim expressions on their faces. The other midwife helped keep the baby in place from the outside while Lív encouraged him to adjust his position from within. Finally, the baby shifted fully of his own volition and his head was in the proper place. Already, Lív could feel the baby moving lower as Inga's body prepared to deliver him.

"Good, now let's get you to a birthing stool." She took the queen by the shoulders and set to helping her out of the bed.

"What is a birthing stool?" one of the midwives asked.

"Never mind, we will do our best with what we have." Lív directed the other women to support Inga in a squatting position on the floor.

She looked the queen in the eyes. "I know you are tired from laboring long hours, but you can do this. You can bring your child into the world." Inga nodded but could only groan in response as the first sensations to push came over her.

Lív encouraged and coaxed, the midwives soothed and massaged, and all the while the queen between them bellowed and shouted and yelled out her pains. At long last the baby's head was free and in another moment the rest of him followed into Lív's waiting hands. After a little cleaning, the baby's cries rang throughout the room, and Inga sobbed in relief.

While the midwives tended the baby, Lív assisted the queen with the last of the birth before settling her into the bed atop a stack of cloths. She prepared a tincture for Inga's healing insides and a salve for her sore outsides and liberally administered both. Once the baby was safely in Inga's arms and suckling at her breast, she left them.

Outside the door, King Bard still waited. He fairly leapt to her side. "How is she?" The fear in his eyes was plain. Lív had always heard that Men of royalty married only for political gain, but it was clear to her that Bard, at least, had married for love.

"Your wife is resting. She and your son are well."

"My son?" he repeated as though unfamiliar with the word. "I have a son?"

"Congratulations." She grinned at the look of happy disbelief on his face. Similar expressions had graced many a dwarf father she had congratulated over the years. It was always amazement on the face of the parent who had not labored to bring the child into the world. The mother had endured too much work to be anything other than relieved.

"If you'll permit it, I would like to stay with her a few days to make sure she progresses well."

"Of course, of course." Bard looked at her as though for the first time. "Thank you, Lív of Erebor. I am in your debt."

#

King Bard himself escorted Lív to guest chambers where she had asked to be called should anything change for Inga or the baby. She would say nothing to Bard, but she was not entirely comfortable with their midwives' skills. Not knowing how to turn a baby was understandable, for it was difficult and did not always work, but encouraging a woman to deliver her baby while lying flat on her back was just ignorant. Lív, however, didn't have time to dwell long on her scorn before sleep overtook her.

She woke to sunlight streaming on her face. Such bright light came as a shock to a dwarf who had spent the bulk of the last three years snug underground. Still fully dressed, she got out of bed and walked to the glass window, which looked out over a small garden courtyard.

Dale was more lovely than she had expected. She had pictured it looking like the small, bleak villages of Men that dotted the road between Erebor and the Iron Hills. Instead, Dale was composed of white stone that made its buildings glitter even in the hazy light of such a grey day. Compared to the dark stone walls of Erebor, looking at Dale was like looking into the sun.

Thinking to find something to eat, Lív straightened her dress and smoothed her hair into a plain braid before opening her chamber door. She was met with a surprise, for leaning against the hallway opposite stood Dwalin. He stepped to attention as soon as he saw her.

"How long have you been here?" she asked without preamble, dumbfounded by his presence.

"Since dawn."

"Dawn?" That was hours ago. "But what are you doing here?"

He shrugged but his grey eyes watched her meaningfully. "I'm your guard."

Her mouth slowly turned up into a smile that probably looked far too satisfied. He had walked the league to Dale just to be her escort. "I was not aware I had need of a guard in Dale."

"I didn't like the idea of you here on your own." His explanation was simple, yet seemed to say much more.

"Then I thank you." She longed to throw her arms around him or some equally forward thing but gave him a small curtsy instead.

"None of that." He took her lightly by the elbow and began guiding her along the corridor. "I expect you're hungry. I'll take you down to the halls for breakfast."

As they walked, she cast him a sidelong glance. "Where are your axes?"

He grunted his disdain. "They don't like me to be so armed in the king's halls." He still wore the daggers on his belt and the gauntlets on his hands, so apparently only the axes were frowned upon. Surely the Men of Dale must have known it was a pointless gesture, for even if he were completely unarmed, Dwalin would still be deadly.

"I'm not sure how I feel about having a guard with no arms," she teased.

"Oh, I've arms enough." The glint in his eyes had her grinning until she had to dart her eyes away. She was all too pleased with this sudden flirtation.

Her belly still buzzed with butterflies when they walked into a small dining hall. It was apparently for servants' use, but Dwalin seemed at his ease among the Men as he served up bowls of porridge and led Lív to an unoccupied table.

"I've seen Bard," he said, his spoon hovering over his bowl. "He's right impressed with you."

"Oh," she said, feeling strangely modest, "I'm only happy everything turned out as it did. It could easily have gone far worse."

"All the more reason to be impressed, then." He stared hard at her a moment. "You came here, no questions asked."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Do you not do the same in battle?"

He gave a short laugh. "Aye, but I usually like to know what I'm up against before I go."

"But you go all the same," she said. He inclined his head, conceding the point. "I, too, use what I have to help whoever it is that needs my care, no matter what I'm up against."

Dwalin's expression softened until the look he gave her was almost...admiration? Of her willingness to do her chosen work? She didn't understand his reaction, but she reveled in it all the same. She could receive tender looks from him quite happily for some time.

After a hasty breakfast taken late enough to be luncheon, Dwalin escorted her back to Inga's chambers to check on mother and baby. Both were doing well, despite the boy's difficult entry into the world. He nursed like a little champion and already wailed miserably whenever taken from Inga, which habits pleased his mother to no end. Inga appeared to be recovering well from the delivery and her issue of blood was not worrying. Lív was content with her patients' steady progress for the day.

"Does he have a name yet?"

"Bain." Inga looked down at her precious baby resting peacefully in her arms. His little hand clasped her finger, his eyes shut tight against the world in his slumber. Now she was feeling more herself, Inga was quite beautiful, with silky black hair and keen dark eyes which she turned on Lív. "I can't thank you enough."

"Oh, none of that," Lív said, smiling to herself as she echoed Dwalin's own words.

"Oh, but I must thank you." Her voice was soft and lovely even in her insistence. "The midwives all said I and the baby would have died without you. So I thank you."

Lív nodded her acceptance, gazing at the sleeping babe as she briefly stroked his soft little cheek. "Has King Bard been to see him?"

"Yes. He's so proud to have a son. Though he would not hold him yet." She smiled shyly up at Lív and added, "I think he's a bit afraid to drop him."

Lív laughed at her suspicions. "All new fathers are. He'll hold him in another day or two, mark my words."

#

Lív spent the rest of the afternoon in Dwalin's company. It seemed he knew his way around the city of Dale as well as the Men who lived there, and they wandered freely through the halls. They received a few odd glances from some of the residents they passed, but Dwalin was apparently oblivious to such reactions. He was engrossed in schooling Lív on Dale's history.

"Dale was once the most prosperous city of Men in all the North." He walked slowly as they gazed at a crumbling mural in one of the inner corridors. The mural was faded and pieces of plaster had fallen away in large sections, but its central image was still visible. Lív examined the scene as she listened to Dwalin's deep voice intoning on the history of Men. "Gold flowed from Erebor to Dale and Esgaroth, and on down from the River Running to the Sea of Rhûn."

She turned to flash him a wry smile. "You speak as though you saw all this yourself."

He gave her a stern look. "I'm not quite that old, lass. My father knew Dale well. He lived in Erebor before the dragon came. He would be sorry to see Dale in such a state as it is now."

"But it is yet being rebuilt. With help from masons and craftsmen of Erebor, the city will come into its former glory."

Dwalin did not seem to share her confidence in this and merely grumbled.

"Do you not agree?" she asked.

"I am not sure that any from Erebor are helping with the rebuilding."

"Why not? As our nearest neighbors, surely King Dáin has offered his assistance?" She did not know the standing between Erebor and Dale beyond their proximity and that they were allies. Did cooperation require more than this?

Dwalin looked away from her. "I'm not sure that he has offered, no."

"Why ever not?"

Dwalin shrugged. "To each his own."

She just stared at him, surprised at his indifference over an ally's need. "Then your father truly would be sorry."

"What?" He had a spark of fire in his eyes at her mention of his father.

"Do you not see this?" She faced the mural and spread her arms open wide before it. The image that had not yet crumbled away showed Dale's marketplace filled with Men and Dwarves working alongside each other as though there were no differences between them. A dwarf merchant shook hands with a man over his stall while dwarflings and children of men played together in the street. The scene beautifully reflected the alliance the two cities shared. "Is this not the Dale your father spoke of?"

He grumbled again, but he looked up at the mural as though he hadn't noticed it before. Perhaps he had only ignored it, for it spanned the length of the room and was not easily missed.

"That was long ago." His voice was colder than she liked to hear.

Stepping closer to him, she put her hand gently on his arm. "Can it not be so again?"

He looked slowly from her to the mural and back again. Whatever he thought of her question, he did not say, but the steel in his eyes softened somewhat.

"Come," she said, resuming a more cheerful tone, "I can see a courtyard from my chamber window. Let's find it."

They left the great hall and stepped out into the chill air. It was not nearly so biting as when it had whipped all about her on the ride to Dale, but it still shocked her lungs as she breathed it in. She clapped her hands together and set out to find the courtyard.

"Lass." Dwalin's voice echoed off the stone walls.

She turned to see him still standing by the great hall's doors. He pointed in the opposite direction from her own. "It's this way."

Grinning, she caught up to him and they walked around the building to the courtyard. All about were small trees and shrubs, most now dormant for winter, but a few here and there were evergreen. She could imagine how this little garden would burst forth with life in the spring. In the center was a fountain, drained of water, that must gladden residents as it played in warmer months.

She took a turn around the fountain, trailing her fingers along its cool edges. Returning to him, she hugged herself to stave off the chill, but maintained her grin all the same.

"Was it all you'd hoped?" he asked drily.

"I should dearly like to see it again in the spring."

He looked down at her and grumbled, but soon a smile was tugging at the edges of his mouth and his eyes shone with amusement. She loved it when he smiled so.

"I know a place you might like." He indicated the direction with a nod of his head and set out. She strolled along at his side, curious what he had in mind. They were given a wide berth by Dale's residents as they walked through the city until they came to an area where the lanes narrowed and the buildings rose high above them. He ducked through an archway and gestured her towards a staircase.

As they climbed, he cast satisfied glances her way but gave no hint as to where they were going. They finally emerged onto a level that was entirely balcony, at the very top of a tower overlooking the city. She gazed down, stunned by Dale from this vantage - the market lay before them and people of Men wandered here and there on business of all kinds.

He rested both hands on the railing and gave her an appraising look. "Should you happen to miss spying on folk while you're here."

She grinned, delighted at this gift of a view. She walked all around the perimeter of the tower, taking in the city below. The lower levels had not yet been rebuilt but remained as charred stubs of buildings tucked low against Dale's outer walls. The burnt-out piles of rubble were gloomy reminders of the destruction the dragon wrought so long ago.

As she continued her circuit of the balcony, the Lonely Mountain loomed large before her. Dwalin was then at her side and for the briefest moment she felt the touch of his hand on her back. Either he changed his mind about the touch or she only hoped for it, as it was gone again in an instant.

"There, you see," he said, pointing away across the valley to the Mountain, "there's a view I never tire of." He looked down at her and it seemed he had more to say, but this, too, he must have decided against.

They stood beneath the dome of the tower, gazing at the Lonely Mountain, as a light snow began to fall.

#

In a show of gratitude, Bard invited Lív and Dwalin to dine with him that evening. Dwalin kept any thoughts he had about Bard's ulterior motives to himself as he escorted Lív to the royal chambers. She seemed surprised by the invitation, as though she had not saved the lives of the Queen and Heir of Dale. Then again, perhaps it was not Bard's attentions that surprised her, but his own. He had walked all the way from Erebor and spent the day squiring her about Dale - his feelings for her could not be more plain. She seemed pleased with him, but at times a cheerful disposition was not an easy thing to read. He had to speak with her, but he would not do it in Dale, of all places.

They were admitted to the royal dining room, where Bard stood waiting. He came forward immediately and bowed to Lív, offering her his profuse thanks, and rightly so. To Dwalin's way of thinking, Bard owed her a life-debt. How he would ever repay it, Dwalin could little guess.

It was just the three of them at table that night, clustered together as though they were family. Thankfully Bard had not included any of his council lackeys at dinner, for they would have made endless small talk. He couldn't abide small talk, least of all from council lackeys.

At a nod from Bard, attendants quickly entered with platters of food, and just as quickly departed. The three fell to, serving themselves and eating in silence. Bard looked as though he would speak, but had not yet made up his mind what to say. Dwalin himself had little to say to Bard. Or rather, he had overmuch to say and was just cautious enough to contain it. Lív was not as reticent, though of course she had nothing ill to say to the man.

"King Bard, your halls are impressive. Dwalin gave me a tour this afternoon, and it's really quite remarkable." She almost rivaled Balin for her easy manner.

"I'm not sure remarkable is the right word," Bard said with his usual modesty, "but I thank you."

Lív was not to be put off. "My understanding is that the entire city had been abandoned until a few years ago. Now it is being restored and growing again. That is remarkable to me." She smiled, seemingly unconcerned that she had just contradicted a king to his face. Bard was no ordinary king, however, and wasn't bothered by her remarks.

"It's true, the city was empty and broken when I sought to rebuild it. We have accomplished much, though much more remains undone." He glanced to Dwalin as though the stall in trade talks on Dale's masonry were entirely his fault.

Lív, too, glanced at him with a curious look in her eyes. The woman saw everything, it seemed. She was disappointed in the attitude he had shown that afternoon with regards to Dale, that much he knew. She was probably right, too, but he wasn't about to admit any such thing before Bard.

"By the time your son is grown, Dale will surely surpass its former glory." From anyone else, Dwalin would have thought the sentiment ingratiating and grasping, but from Lív he knew it to be sincerely meant. It worked its intended result, too, for a grin flashed over Bard's face at the mention of his son.

"I truly hope so." For a moment, Bard was lighthearted, a thing Dwalin had never yet seen in the man. The joy in his face seemed to erase his usual sullenness. He looked almost likable.

"Bain's a handsome boy," Lív said, her voice utter sweetness. "Though I must admit I'm partial to babes with wee little beards on their chins."

Bard stared at her as though he couldn't quite grasp her meaning. "Are - are dwarves _born_ with beards?" He stumbled over himself and seemed to see the audacity of his abject shock only after the fact.

"Aye." Lív nodded, unconcerned by her listener's awed reaction. "Some have only the barest dusting of hair on the cheeks, others are born with a heavy growth already." She stroked her own sideburns to illustrate her point.

"I hadn't heard this," Bard said as he continued to gape at her.

Enjoying Bard's awkwardness over such a topic, Dwalin joined the conversation. "Dwarf mothers are proud to deliver a boy with a beard. It's a sign of virility." He winked at Lív.

She gave him an arch grin that set his chest aflame. "Dwalin, here, was surely born with a full beard."

"And my axes in hand." He gave her a mischievous look and she laughed freely, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight like two pale emeralds. It was a delight just to watch her and he drank in the sight.

Bard then scrutinized him in such a way, Dwalin thought perhaps he had enjoyed himself a bit too much. His laughter dissolved into a grumble.

"I'm curious, Dwalin," Bard said slowly, "how it is that the Captain of Erebor was sent on such a task as to escort a healer to Dale."

Damn that man.

On hearing the question, Lív reigned in her own laughter and seemed just as interested as Bard to hear Dwalin's answer. He could give none - none that were the whole truth of it, anyway.

"As valuable as she has been to you, she is more valuable to us." At his response, a small smile of satisfaction pulled at Lív's mouth.

"To all of Erebor?" Bard raised one eyebrow as he asked his pointed question.

Dwalin glared at the king. "Aye. Healers are valuable to us all." The edge of steel to his voice showed his irritation, but Bard was goading him. What could he do?

"I thought from the bandage on your hand that perhaps you, too, were in her care." A trace of a smile came to his lips. He knew exactly what he was doing, the little whelp. Were he not King of Dale...

"It's nothing," Lív told Bard. "A mere scratch, but sometimes I am overcautious in my care, especially when orcs are involved. One can never be too careful."

"That's wise," he said to her in solemn tones. To Dwalin, he said, "Any healer so valuable should be held close, should she not?" He smirked but left it at that. It was a lucky thing, for he was one smart remark away from having the smirk wiped off his face, king or no.

The rest of the meal passed in easy conversation between Lív and Bard. She asked after Dale and Esgaroth, and Bard's life in each. Questions came readily from her and Bard was surprisingly willing to answer them. Dwalin learned much he had not known of the man, but he said little himself.

Bard's glib comments to him left much for Dwalin to ponder. Not just that Lív should be held close - well he knew it and long had he thought of it. But that even Bard could see how he felt about her was sobering. Whatever he thought he had been hiding was out in the open now. Meeting her was like the spark his bone-dry heart had needed, and apparently any fool could see he was completely in flame.

..

..

..

Please forgive the mix of book & movie-verse. The Hobbit makes no mention of Bain, and only his death year is given in the appendices. Given that, it's plausible he wasn't born until after the Battle of Five Armies, and I went with that for my story.


	8. Chapter 8

Lív stayed on in Dale two more days. Between visits to look in on Inga and Bain to monitor their progress, she spent most of her time with Dwalin. Sometimes they wandered Dale's halls or returned to the courtyard. Often they simply sat together, chatting before a roaring fire in the small den Bard had offered for their use. Dwalin's company made her feel dangerously at home, even in strange surroundings.

In the evenings she drew her chair up as close to the hearth as it could go, to sit with her legs tucked underneath her and a blanket thrown over her lap. Although the great hall seemed sturdy enough, its masonry left much to be desired in the form of chinks in the stonework, from which one could never seem to escape chilling drafts. The first evening after Bain was born, Lív had walked all about Inga's chambers, testing for drafts, but apparently Bard had seen to that long before the child was born. The baby's room, at least, was sound.

Dwalin built up the fire with a few more sticks before settling himself into a chair close by hers. The firelight made his eyes dance red as he watched her. "You're not well suited to the cold, I see."

"To go from the warmth of Erebor to the chill of Dale will take more than a day to grow used to, I confess." Dwarves were made to withstand heat, not cold, though he didn't need to be told such things. She turned her hands underneath the blanket so that now only her face was exposed to view. "You don't mind it?"

"I've spent too much time out in the elements to be bothered by it," he scoffed. "You've not traveled much, I take it."

"I've traveled a bit - nothing quite like my whirlwind trip on horseback to arrive here, of course." The thrilling adventure had lasted all of a quarter of an hour. "To someone who has walked from Erebor to the Ered Luin, I suppose my travels wouldn't sound like much."

He quirked his eyebrows as though waiting for more.

"When I was younger, I wanted to travel, but Father was against it. I was a girl, and my place was within the halls." She smiled wistfully, thinking of the dreams of her youth. "Once I became a healer, I was sometimes called on to visit the villages of Men. I was always eager for a chance to sleep under the stars."

"It's not common for dwarrowdams to travel alone." From his tone, she could tell Dwalin did not approve.

"I was never alone, and I rarely traveled overnight, to be honest. My evenings under the stars have been few."

"Do you yet wish to sleep under the stars?"

"Aye, I would like to have the stars spread out above me again, though I suppose I don't need to travel for that. I only need walk out the gates of Erebor with a bedroll."

He gave her a warning look. "You do that, and we'll be having words. I'm not your guard for nothing."

She smiled, hoping to disarm the seriousness of the gaze he cast upon her. "I wouldn't go without my trusty guard." He seemed satisfied at this, though her own words mortified her for their implications. "Anyway, I'm not sure there's anyplace I'd rather be now than the caverns of Erebor."

"You never think to return to the Hills?" His tone was that of casual interest, but his eyes seemed to say otherwise.

"No, I find I am far too valued here."

"That you are, lass." The grin he wore warmed her far better than the roaring fire had done.

"And what of you? Do you wish to return to the Blue Mountains, or set off on the road again?" She, too, tried to maintain a casual air, but in that she suspected she had failed.

He did not even seem to ponder the question. "No, I think I'm bound to Erebor quite permanently." The intensity of his gaze gave a weight to his words that made her heart dance in her chest.

"Balin will be glad of that." Her own gladness must be evident.

"I wouldn't be too sure. My brother has traveled a great deal. The urge to seek out something new may yet come over him again."

"He seems so happy in Erebor." Admittedly, she did not know Balin well, but he fell among the most cheerful dwarves of her acquaintance.

"And so he is. But he never came here for Erebor itself." Dwalin's expression grew thoughtful in the firelight. "He came for Thorin. As did we all."

Always she was forgetting this piece of his history that tied him to the Lonely Mountain. He and his companions had not traveled all the way from the Blue Mountains to have Dáin be their king. "I'm sorry things did not turn out differently," she said softly.

"As am I."

After a moment, he turned his gaze on her again and the twinge of a sad smile pulled at his lips. "It seems I have a talent for turning a pleasant conversation to the morose."

"You've seen a great deal of sadness in your years. There's no shame in that."

His eyes glinted at her. "I believe you just called me _old_."

"I did no such thing." She paused as she scrutinized him. "How old are you?"

He laughed outright. "Now it comes to it, I'd rather not say."

"You're just being difficult," she said with a grin.

"No, I'm being practical. _You_ will be difficult."

"You've as good as said you weren't born in Erebor." She squinted her eyes as she assessed him. "I don't think you are young enough to have been born in the Blue Mountains." She didn't know exactly when Thráin established the halls there, but it was at least thirty years after the sack of Erebor, which would have put Dwalin's age younger than she thought it.

He wore a pained expression. "This is worse than simply telling you would be."

"You're something younger than one hundred seventy-five, and rather older than one hundred forty-five."

"Aye, you've worked it out," he said, his chest rolling with laughter. "With precision, I might add."

"Will you not tell me?"

He gave her a stern look as though to prepare her. "I am one hundred seventy-three, Miss Curiosity."

She just nodded as she gazed at him. He was no older than she expected and in fact, he might have said he was one hundred ninety-three and she wouldn't have minded. It meant little, really. "I suppose it's only fair to tell you my age in return."

"One hundred thirteen." He didn't bother to conceal his smirk.

"How do you know that?"

He shrugged. "I asked."

"You asked about me?" A slow smile spread over her face but then it faltered. "What else did you discover?"

His smirk turned into a wide grin as he stretched his legs out in front of him. "I think I've been as forthright as I care to be for one evening."

#

While Lív would have been happy to have a much longer stay in Dale, she knew her duty was to the dwarves of Erebor, not to the Queen and Heir of Dale. Inga and Bain continued to thrive and it came time for her to say farewell, whether she strictly wanted to or not. She did not regret her patients' good health, but she did regret taking her leave of them, for it meant leaving such unhindered time with Dwalin behind.

Bard had offered to return them to Erebor as Lív had come, on horseback, but they respectfully declined. She had no interest at all in climbing onto an animal again. Dwarves were generally not fond of animals and she herself had no great love of them, least of all for the giant horse that had borne her to Dale in such haste.

Notwithstanding the return of Dwalin's axes, Bard would not be swayed in his decision to send them with half a dozen riders following close behind as escort. That orcs could be so bold as to travel within the short distance that separated the two kingdoms was a sad reminder of the poor relations between them. Even evil creatures knew Erebor and Dale did not look out for one another.

Lív could not understand it, for King Bard seemed a reasonable man, and Dáin never would have stood for such brazenness from enemies in the Iron Hills. Whatever strife lay between the kingdoms, it was beyond her ken.

Snow now blanketed the valley in light drifts. They would have a hard winter, although the dwarves in Erebor's great caverns would little feel it. She worried for the people of Dale with their drafty walls and charred homes. What a boon it would be to have Dwarvish masons restore their walls and defenses.

Thinking of all the ways Dale could benefit from the skills of dwarves, Lív's mind was not on the road before her, and she slipped on a patch of ice.

Dwalin caught her elbow before she could fall, although she'd already let out a ridiculous shriek of surprise. If only her reflexes were as good as his, she might have spared herself the embarrassment.

"All right?" he asked. She nodded, painfully aware of the blush that warmed her cheeks. "Here." He pulled her arm through his as they continued on.

She could hardly be worried about slipping again when she wasn't sure her feet touched the ground at all, she was so happy.

He looked down at her with a sly smile. "One would never suspect you weren't a seasoned traveler."

Once under the shadow of Erebor's main gates, Dwalin waved away the riders, who were then lost to sight in an instant. He turned to Lív and they simply looked at each other. This, too, seemed like a farewell. It wasn't, of course, nothing would change once they walked through the gates. Only, somehow it felt as though something had changed already.

"Thank you for your escort." Her demeanor was overly somber. "Truly, you make an excellent guard."

"Get on inside," he said gruffly, "that's enough of your sass." The laughter that tugged at his own lips betrayed his good humor, despite his comments to the contrary. What was it about Dwalin's rough appearance that made her want to tease him as though she were a coquette fifty years her junior? Perhaps it was simply that her teasing amused him, and she loved to see him smile.

They nodded to the guards and stepped through the gate. Gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked along the street that led through the antechamber to the main corridor of Erebor. It was a strange homecoming - she felt she had been away an age, and yet her absence had been far too short. As soon as they were safely in the passage and far from listening ears, she turned to face him.

"Thank you for joining me in Dale." There was no trace of teasing in her voice now. She only hoped it wouldn't betray more than she intended it to, though she was not sure there was anything of her heart he did not already know. "I was glad to have your company."

Dwalin inclined his head in acknowledgement of her thanks, his grey eyes piercing right through her. "I couldn't have done anything less."

#

The day after his return from Dale, Dwalin was in the training rooms, sparring with a few of his warriors, when the messenger found him. He was a slight lad who was fairly swimming in the blue messenger's tunic. Even without the tunic that shouted out his position, it was clear he had never set foot in the training room except to bear messages.

"Captain Dwalin," the messenger said, his voice barely above the din of the dwarves in the cavernous room. Dwalin only heard him because he had watched the lad's skittish entrance. How could such a timid thing get a position as messenger? Probably family ties. He called for a break from the soldier he was fighting.

"King Dáin requests your presence in his council chambers." The messenger's voice was not steady. He couldn't even keep eye contact with Dwalin, let alone speak loud enough to hear. It was as though someone had taken Ori back in time forty years, slapped a blue tunic on him, and asked him to relay important communication. It was laughable.

Dwalin nodded to the messenger. He grabbed a towel and quickly dried himself off before following the boy from the training rooms. There was no conversation between them - the boy was too frightened to speak, and Dwalin had nothing to say to such a one as he.

This lad was probably the coddled son of someone of high rank who had gained King Dáin's notice. Dáin loved giving favors from the throne, and doled out positions like candy to dwarflings. Whether the dwarf was wholly suited to the given job was less important than that the job was given by Dáin's good graces.

Dáin was not a bad king, but he was not the great king Thorin would have been. Dwalin never spoke of it, but it pained him to see Dáin on the throne. What might have been was not to be guessed, but he was certain sure Thorin would have had more sense than to grant such vain indulgences as Dáin often did.

When they reached the council chambers, he found Dáin alone, apparently relaxing at his leisure. When the king saw Dwalin he gestured for him to sit down.

"How was your visit to Dale?" Dáin's voice had the edge of a sneer to it at the mere mention of their neighboring kingdom. Bard was right - they were poor allies.

"Well enough."

Dáin nodded, showing little interest in how Dwalin actually spent his time, which was all well and good, since he wouldn't have told him such things in any event. "And the king's wife and child?"

"Lív saved them both. You can rest assured Bard was grateful to her, and to you for sending her."

"Good. It never hurts to have such a debt hanging over your ally's head." Dáin looked far too pleased. "I hope you didn't get into any arguments with Bard while you were there." His wide grin said that was not entirely true.

"None to speak of."

"Well, then," Dáin said with a flourish of his hands, "there's always next time. How is the king, anyway?"

"I saw Bard little, but he seemed well. A bit distracted by his new addition, naturally." Dwalin felt a touch of guilt as he thought of his tour through Dale with Lív, and the sight of the city's crumbling walls. "How go the trade negotiations? Will we send masons?"

Dáin seemed disinterested now Dwalin wanted to talk actual business. "Oh, yes, once all parties are satisfied."

Dwalin guessed Dáin would never be truly satisfied with another king on his heels. In days of old, Erebor had been a kingdom of renown and Dale but a market town. A prosperous one, but little more than a city of Men made rich by its proximity to the Mountain. As soon as Bard was made _King_ of Dale, Dáin's ability to cooperate with the man had decreased considerably. That Dáin, himself, had only recently come into his crown hardly mattered.

"An agreement would mean plenty of work. Their outer walls aren't in good order, I can tell you that. They've been built up, but it's slipshod work. Anything might tear them down again." The fact was, Dwalin hoped the Men had sense enough to keep their children away from the walls. Some sections only needed the smallest nudge to come crumbling down.

Dáin cast a skeptical glance at Dwalin, his eyes hard. "Three days with Bard and you're singing his tune, are you?"

Dwalin laughed but there was no mirth to it. "I don't have to agree with everything the man says to see his outer defenses are weak."

Dáin nodded. "I'll see what I can do about the trade agreement. It's hardly urgent in the winter, since orcs usually stay in their holes."

"Usually," Dwalin grumbled. "Though we've already had three attacks."

"Have you changed your mind about seeking them out?"

Dwalin shifted uneasily. Had he? He hated the idea of desperate orcs roaming free lands, but he no more liked the idea of sending spies into the freezing north with little information to go on. "No, I still think it's ill advised in this weather. But Dale's walls would never hold off an attack of any great size." Maybe three days in Dale did have him singing Bard's tune.

Dáin nodded. "I'll send someone to look them over."

"Was that all you wanted from me?"

Dáin waved his hand in dismissal. "Aye, be on your way."

The king's carelessness riled him, but he left without a further word. He was loyal to Dáin, but damn if he didn't want to punch the dwarf soundly in his self-satisfied face sometimes.

#

Close on the heels of her return to Erebor, Lív was called on to tend another mother, this time a dwarrowdam who was with child. Her husband's concern was such that he had rushed Lív straight to her bedside, but it turned out to be nothing more than a bad case of morning sickness. Thankfully the mother-to-be had no pains and no bleeding, and even her vomiting was not of worrying frequency. After reassuring them that the symptom was natural, if unpleasant, and leaving a tincture to ease the worst of the dwarrowdam's upset stomach, Lív took her leave again.

She smiled to herself as she returned to her own chambers, thinking that here would be one of those bairns Óin so longed to see in the halls. She knew of a few dozen other dwarrowdams who were with child, but Óin was right, Erebor's numbers increased too slowly. Dale was a smaller city but could easily surpass them in population in but a few decades. Dáin's abandonment of betrothal customs could not change the fact that dwarrowdams were few, and not all married.

Turning into the corridor that led to her chamber, Lív was startled to see Dwalin leaning against the wall next to her doorway. The look on his face was of such seriousness, she feared the worst and was at his side in an instant. "Is everything all right?"

He stared down into her eyes and shook his head slightly. "No."

She paled at the ominous word. Inga? Bain? Another orc attack?

A look of guilt crossed his face. "I didn't mean to frighten you. It's only my hand. It's come open again."

This was more frightening to her than the threat of orcs. A wound that wouldn't heal could lead to festering and death, even among dwarves. That such a small wound could threaten such a powerful warrior was absurd, but worry swept through her all the same.

"Come inside." She led him into her chambers and he glanced about, seeming to memorize it all in a single look. The feat was not difficult, for she had little of note - a bookshelf, two overstuffed chairs in front of her fire, and a small table that doubled as a writing desk. She gestured for him to sit while she gathered supplies from a low cupboard.

Lív placed everything on the table and sat beside him to remove the bandages and inspect his wound. It was in the crease of his palm, where it must move every time he opened or closed his fingers. The edges of the wound had separated again, as he had said, but the tissue was not seeping and had not changed color, much to her relief.

"There's no way I can ask you not to use your hand for a time, is there?" She gave him an affectionate look, well aware of the answer.

"I'll be needing it."

"It's not festering, despite being torn open in places. Stitches in this part of your palm would only make things worse. My advice is to clean it and salve it again."

He nodded. "There's naught more to do for it, but I thought, seeing as I am in your care, you would want to have a say."

"You are in my care, are you?" The admission amused her as she cleaned his palm.

"Aye," he said softly, "I am in your care." His gaze was full of tenderness and meaning that could not be mistaken. His eyes held a question she did not then have words to answer, though her heart thundered in her chest, aching to echo the sentiment. Returning her attention to his injury, she carefully salved his wound and wrapped his hand again, her mind at a loss for a proper response.

Half afraid to look at him lest she lose her nerve, she turned over his bandaged hand and examined it, closing his fingers over her own. His knuckles had been split open and healed over so many times they were a mass of scarred tissue. She traced one fingertip along his knuckles in honor of their ruined state, and the smallest sigh rumbled through his chest.

As she had seen that first night they met, his large forearms were heavily marked by scars of all shapes and sizes. From his knuckles on up his arm, she gently traced the lines of each one, amazed at all he had endured over the years. Again and again her fingers found a new scar to touch, acknowledge, and soothe. Dwalin's breathing grew heavy from her attentions. Only when her progress was impeded by the rolled shirt sleeve at his elbow did she finally look into his eyes again.

She saw a hunger there, and understood that he saw the same in her. He knew how her heart raced for him, how every part of her body seemed alive with flame. He knew if he but reached out and touched her, she would be lost.

She traced the scar that ran over his forehead, through his eyebrow, and over his nose. A low groan rolled through him. He took her hands in his and pressed his warm lips to her fingers before she could trace the other scars that marked the skin on his face and bare head. The gentleness of his mouth and the softness of his whiskers sent a tumbling, tugging sensation through her belly.

"Lív, you've sparked a desire in me like I've not known before." His breath was hot against her fingers as he rumbled out the words.

Spurred to boldness by his confession, she leaned closer to him, her eyes on the line of his lips beneath his dark mustache. Dwalin needed no further invitation. His mouth was on hers in an instant. One of his hands was in her hair, holding her close as he kissed her eagerly. All the desires that had been building these last months welled up inside her full to bursting and she matched him with equal intensity.

After a few delicious moments, he drew back slightly. He looked all over her face before pressing slow kisses to each of her cheeks.

Another sigh came from the back of his throat and she loved the sound of it. "I need to go before I lose my senses." They were alone in her chambers - he was not the only one at risk of such a thing.

When he stood, he looked down into her eyes. "Can I see you again?"

It seemed an odd question from one she had seen nearly every day for more than two months. His sudden formality, combined with the taste of him that yet lingered on her lips, made her blush, though her slight embarrassment did nothing to curtail her eagerness to see him again. "Yes."

He gave her one last glance as though wavering on his decision to go, but go he did. As soon as he left her chambers, she put her hands over her hammering heart. As much as she longed for him, he longed for her, too.


	9. Chapter 9

The Grand Winter Celebration was held the third evening after Dwalin declared himself in Lív's care. The intervening days rushed by in a blur, broken up by his visits to the healing rooms each afternoon for brief conversation. She might have thought the kisses they'd shared had never happened but for the changed way he looked at her. He watched her as though she were a spring of water and he was dying of thirst.

After preparing the infirmary with a ready supply of tinctures for upset stomachs and aching heads, Lív went to her own rooms to change for the Celebration. Wishing she had had the foresight to ask Runa to make her something special for the occasion, she donned her best dress and loosely arranged her braids upon her head. Looking herself over in her small mirror, she was pleased with what she saw. She was no youth, but this was no great secret from Dwalin.

Wending her way through the halls, she heard the Celebration long before she ever reached the main corridors. Drawing nearer the revelry, she slowed her pace. Her body was alight with nervous excitement but she had a strange desire to let such feelings linger a moment more. It seemed she and Dwalin were on the edge of something she both wanted to run to and shy away from. Taking deep breaths in an attempt to ease away her nerves, she turned the corner into the Great Chamber of Thrór.

The Mountain was alive that night. Thousands of dwarves were crammed into the halls, with hundreds more filling adjacent chambers and corridors. These events were popular, but she had no idea there would be such attendance. The Celebration's lively thrum must surely reverberate through all of Erebor.

At the far end of the chamber sat Dáin on a modest seat that little conveyed the greatness of what it meant to be King of Erebor. Laughing as he watched the festivities unfold around him, he seemed utterly at ease and looked much the same as he ever had in his years as Lord of the Iron Hills. His son, Thorin Stonehelm, stood not far behind, laughing and clapping along with the rest.

To one side of the royals were a throng of musicians playing for all they were worth. Despite the cramped quarters, a large area close to them was occupied by jostling dancers engaged just then in a lively jig. In the middle of the room, dwarves mingled about in large knots, and closest to her by the doors were mountains of food laid out between kegs of ale and bottles of wine. The whole was lit by torches set high on the walls, bathing the chamber in a rosy glow.

Lív scanned the room, teetering on her toes and craning her neck to glimpse any trace of Dwalin. Balin stood not far from the king, chatting with a red-haired dwarf. Óin had given up his ear trumpet entirely and nodded in time to the music. She saw Runa talking with another dwarrowdam, although her children were not then to be seen. Nor was Dwalin, it seemed. She sank back onto her heels, fighting disappointment. Had he not come?

"You're late." His rumbling voice was practically in her ear. Her heart jumped in surprise but then set right in to race at the sound of him.

She turned around with a smile. "I had much to do before I could leave the healing rooms." Anything else she might have thought to say stopped in her throat as she gaped at him.

He was dressed in a dark green silk tunic with a tooled leather vest worn over it. His breeches and boots had certainly never been on the battlefield - in fact, the whole of his outfit could well be brand new. If ever she had seen him in such fine clothes, she could not remember it. He wore no arms, save for the daggers on his belt, which had been burnished so that their hilts gleamed in the torchlight. So, too, had his hair and beard been brushed to a high sheen, and on his lips he wore a content smile. He must know how striking he looked in such a state.

Her smile grew all the wider. "You're so handsome."

"You're positively devastating." He reached one hand up and took a lock of her hair between his fingers. His grey eyes gazing into hers and the slight touch of his hand in her hair sent a sinking sensation through her chest to her stomach. After a time, he dropped his hand, though with obvious reluctance. As his hand fell to his side, he let the backs of his fingers graze along her bare arm so that she shivered at his boldness.

"Have you been here long?" It was difficult to keep a cool head when everything within her wanted nothing more than for him to touch her again.

"Oh, aye," he said carelessly, "waiting for my tardy healer to make her appearance."

The knowledge that she had become _his_ healer set her to sparkling in exultation. "I'm sorry for my errant ways."

"I can see that you're not." Another smile tugged at his lips. "I've spoken with the king. He promises there are no impertinences on the agenda for this evening."

"I did not tell you such things that I might be teased about them," she laughed.

"Turnabout is fair play, or so I've heard." His eyes glinted with a playfulness that made her wonder how she ever thought him surly.

He glanced behind her and sighed. "My brother is fairly itching to see you. Shall we join him?"

As they made their slow progress through the milling crowd, Dwalin placed his hand on the small of her back to guide her and, as it seemed, protect her from the pressing throngs. His gentle touch was a surprisingly public display from one so reserved. She delighted in this acknowledgement of whatever it was that was building between them.

Balin watched their advance, grinning like he'd never been so pleased in his life. Bowing quickly to Lív, he took her hand. "Miss Lív, I'm so happy you decided to join us this evening for our little party."

She breathed a laugh, knowing most of the Mountain's population must be wedged into the chambers. "I do enjoy an intimate get together."

"Oh, aye, it's quite a merry gathering. That's the Winter Celebration for you. Few travel for trade this time of year, so most of the Mountain turns out." He looked across the crowds until his gaze rested on Dwalin beside him. "One never knows what surprises are in store, eh?"

Dwalin's grumbling murmur in response did nothing to diminish the twinkle in Balin's eyes.

As she, too, looked about the room, Lív's waist was suddenly caught in a firm embrace. For the briefest moment she thought Dwalin had lost all control of himself, but she quickly saw that it was Astra who had leapt at her. The dwarfling hugged her tight, chattering animatedly about dresses, hairstyles, and jewels, although Lív could make out little of it as the words all flew together.

Runa caught up to her and pried her arms off of Lív. She sighed as though her evening had been nothing but a continual stream of scoldings. "We do not accost others, Astra, not even our friends."

Realizing to whom their friend was speaking, Runa went red in the face. Lív had not yet confided just who it was that had been paying her visits in the healing rooms. This was perhaps not the best way of informing her friend, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

"Dwalin, Balin, may I introduce my good friend, Runa, and her daughter, Astra." Bows were made all around. Runa shot Lív a curious glance, but if this unexpected introduction aroused her suspicions, she said nothing of them.

"Amâd, can I try the ale tonight?" Askel had followed his mother, apparently paying no attention to her or his sister's dealings. When he saw Dwalin towering in front of him, his eyes went wide and he stood stock still.

"And this is Runa's son, Askel."

The admiration in the lad's eyes was painfully obvious. As obsessed as he was with warriors, of course he knew full well who they were. The two older dwarves nodded to Askel, Balin with a warm smile, and Dwalin with an air of distracted indifference.

"How do you do, laddie?" Balin's eyes danced at the look of pure shock on his face.

Askel swallowed hard but stood straighter. "I am well, Master Balin." Lív supposed the opportunity to speak with Balin and Dwalin was a good test of his resolve to become a warrior. He could hardly train with warriors if he was not yet ready to speak with them.

"Please forgive our intrusion," Runa said. "My youngest was not to be stopped." She gave her daughter a chiding glance but it was lost on Astra. The girl's eyes darted about the room as though the wonders of the Celebration might disappear entirely if she did not take everything in all at once.

"It's no intrusion," Balin said. "The more, the merrier." Runa smiled at his generosity but looked cautiously from him to Dwalin. Lív could almost see her connecting the dots in her mind.

"Captain Dwalin, I hope your soldiers are well?" Runa betrayed nothing but innocent curiosity. "It would be a shame if any of them were confined to the infirmary and must miss tonight's Celebration."

"No, it's been weeks since any were laid up in the healing rooms." He seemed to see nothing amiss in Runa's question, but Lív saw right through it.

"I'm _very_ glad to hear that." Although Runa did not show it, Lív could hear the smug satisfaction in her friend's voice. Was this how Dwalin had felt to endure Balin's cheeky glances over tea? If so, she commended his ability to keep his irritation in check as well as he had.

"There she is!" Astra pointed across Lív towards the back of the hall. "Elin is here."

Lív gently pulled Astra's hand down as she turned to look at the Princess of Erebor. Elin was in her early seventies and was absolutely radiant. It was easy to see why Astra admired her so. Her hair fell in copper ringlets set with dozens of minuscule braids, her eyes were large and blue, and her lips formed a perfect, pink bow. She spoke with her brother, Prince Thorin Stonehelm, and looked about with a decided air of satisfaction. She had apparently enjoyed the transition from Lady to Princess, though Lív guessed few would not.

"Isn't she the most beautiful dwarf in the whole Mountain?" Astra breathed.

"Not to my eyes." Dwalin watched Lív, who shook her head with fondness at such a compliment. She did not consider herself beautiful, but that he thought her so could give nothing but pleasure.

Runa smiled at his open flattery but had the grace to look away rather than flaunt the fact that Lív's secret admirer was now identified. Dwalin, it seemed, did not think his admiration ought to be concealed.

"I wish I looked just like Elin." Astra couldn't seem to take her gaze from the princess.

"I wish you thought of your character as much as your appearance." Runa smiled down at her daughter but Lív knew the girl's unceasing chatter about the beautiful royal had worn on her friend's patience.

"Aye, listen to your mother," Balin said. "Beauty fades, but character lasts. Just look at me. I was once the most beautiful dwarf in all of the Blue Mountains."

Astra giggled. "You can't be beautiful, you're a man."

"Tsk tsk," he said with a shake of his head, "at least I still have my good character." He chuckled, though it seemed Astra hadn't taken his lesson. She continued to stare at Elin in open awe.

The musicians struck up a new tune and Balin turned to Lív. "I believe you said you would dance with me, Miss Lív. You can't back out now, for I have my heart dead set upon it."

With a brief glance at Dwalin, who looked on with a satisfied smile, she placed her hand in Balin's and he led her among the other dancers. They took their places, bowed, and set to dancing. It was a merry reel that sent partners spinning and twirling in various sets so that in truth, she danced but little with Balin. Each time they came together he would grin broadly at her but there was no time for conversation. When at last the dance was finished they were both hot and out of breath.

"Come, let's get a refreshment, shall we?" Balin ushered her towards the waiting stores of food and drink where he poured them each a small glass of wine.

"You're an excellent dancer, Lív. I can't think why you'd want to hide such a skill by missing out on the Celebrations."

"I suppose for a time I felt too occupied with my duties to attend the Celebrations." She need not go into detail about the _impertinences_ as she had for Dwalin.

"But you don't feel that way now?" His eyes twinkled at her so, she felt he was asking more than he actually said.

"No, I don't." A blush crept over her cheeks, less for Balin's words than his knowing look.

He nodded and watched the troupe of musicians play for a while as he sipped his wine. "This viol player is good, though not so good as Dwalin." He could not miss Lív's look of surprise. That Dwalin was musical at all was unknown to her. "Oh yes, he plays beautifully, though he hadn't for years."

A soft, sad smile came over his features. "I thought perhaps he had set the viol aside for good, but lately I have heard him playing again." His eyes shone at her. "I can't tell you how glad I am of it, my dear."

"I'm glad of it, too." Indeed, she could hardly contain her own joyful smiles at his comments.

Balin looked out across the room to where Dwalin still stood with Runa, Askel, and Astra. "He's the best of the best, my brother, though he doesn't let many know it. He's been through some hard times. Too many, if truth be told. But perhaps all he needs is a little healing." He winked at her, the cheeky thing, though she couldn't help but be pleased by his open approval.

She, too, watched Dwalin. For all his finery, he appeared no more comfortable than he had at Búri's wedding, but he seemed to be entertaining her friends as well as he might. Askel stood beside him, his chest puffed out at the privilege of being seen next to the Captain of Erebor. With Runa and Dwalin as her captive audience, Astra chattered on about something most likely having to do with Princess Elin's beauty or wardrobe.

As he had once before, Dwalin seemed to know Lív was watching him, and he looked across the room to her. His gaze was so intense, she felt it as though he brushed his hand across her skin. His mouth turned up into a smile of true pleasure, and the feeling that rose through her chest in response was undeniable - she loved him. Balin's eyes were on her now, but that he might see such emotion in her was no cause for embarrassment. She could only be proud that such a dwarf as Dwalin held her in such high regard.

Óin soon joined Lív and Balin, and remarked how happy he was that she had decided to join in the festivities. He introduced her to his brother with the red beard, Glóin, and the four passed some time in idle conversation. Lív was distracted, for her gaze would return across the room to Dwalin, and each time it did, she found him looking back at her. Despite the distance and the crowds between them, it seemed no one was in the room but they two.

It was not long before Óin asked her to dance, so dance she did. The song was familiar to her, but either the dwarves of the Blue Mountains had altered the routine or Óin had forgotten how to perform it, for they had a difficult time keeping in step. It mattered little, for they laughed all the while, whether in step or out, until they fairly tumbled off the dance floor.

By the time the dance was over, Dwalin had joined Balin and Glóin. "Your friend asked me to pass along her farewells," he told Lív. "She said it was time to get the lassie to bed."

That was never an easy endeavor on a normal day, let alone when the dwarfling must part with her view of Princess Elin. "I'm sure Astra did not go willingly."

"No, she fought the whole way. Quite impressive, that."

She gave him a wry smile. "I can think of another someone who fought so."

"You would find me quite willing now." The mischievous look he gave her said Dwalin knew a thing or two about impertinence, himself.

The musicians struck up a new song and he wordlessly offered her his hand. She slipped her own into his, just registering Glóin's quiet "Oh, ho," as they moved away from the others to the dance floor.

The steps for that particular song were slow and methodical. Partners were not exchanged, but held hands as they performed the courtship dance. Dwalin never took his eyes off Lív and the ardor of his gaze had her heart pounding all over again. She moved through the dance well for someone who could focus on nothing but the warm hands and grey eyes of her partner. By the time the song ended her head was spinning.

They stood together as the dance broke up and couples bustled past them in their haste to reach more ale or a new partner. Someone jostled her against Dwalin's broad chest and she was suddenly aware of how stiflingly hot it was in the crowded hall.

"I need some fresh air." Her voice was low, but Dwalin heard her. He nodded and his hand was once again at her back to guide her through the crowds. They skirted the area where they had left Balin and the others, instead making straight for the doors that led from the hall. Once free of the commotion, Dwalin dropped his hand but followed close behind. Clusters of dwarves mingled in the corridors, so Lív continued on.

Finally, she turned down a hallway where no other dwarves were in sight, though the faint music from the Celebration could yet be heard. A cool breeze blew from some unseen passageway and she let it play over her face and hair for a moment before turning around. Dwalin stood still, watching her, his face glowing red in the torchlight. She took the two short steps into his waiting arms.

He caught her with a kiss. His mouth was gentle and delectably warm as it moved on hers. He was as passionate as before, but he seemed less hungry and more deliberate now. She traced her hands up his arms to rest on his broad shoulders. With one hand, Dwalin held her close around her waist, with the other he caressed her cheek and jaw as he pressed kiss after kiss to her mouth. His fingers running over her whiskers elicited a sound of delight from the back of her throat and he drew away slightly.

He cupped her cheek in his hand, looking hard into her eyes. "I'm too old for you." His voice was husky and he shook his head as though to discourage her. "It's selfish of me to want you for my own."

"You can be selfish." She kissed him again, not wanting the tumbling, spinning feeling that coursed through her body to end. What pleasures she had missed out on for the last forty years were being made up for with abandon. His hands gently roved over her back and hips as though committing the curves of her body to memory. She lightly drew her fingers through his beard and this time it was his own groan of pleasure that made Dwalin stop.

He held her close and touched his forehead against hers. Such an intimate gesture conveyed feelings deeper than mere longing or desire, though he did not speak them. She closed her eyes and just took in the moment, inhaling the light scent of pipe weed that lingered about him though she had never seen him smoke. He edged his nose closer to hers until he pressed another kiss to her lips, and they were lost in each other all over again.

"We have to go back in," she finally whispered. It would have been preferable to continue on alone with Dwalin, but she needed to show some semblance of restraint.

"Oh, aye," he said with laughter in his voice. "Tongues will be wagging already."

This was a sobering thought. She pulled herself from his arms and brushed her hands down her dress to smooth it. She was well past the age for sneaking back into a dance with disheveled hair and a red mouth.

Dwalin's eyes sparkled at her as she tried to set herself to rights. "If there is any talk, it will only be that I am the luckiest dwarf in the Mountain."

She stopped her preening and fixed him with a hard look. "Such honeyed words from you would spark gossip all on their own."

"Then I will take care that none can hear them." He leaned closer to her ear until his beard brushed against her neck. "You are the brightest jewel in all the Seven Kingdoms. What did I ever do to earn your favor?"

His whispers cast his breath over her ear, sending a shiver through her. It was all she could do not to gasp in pleasure. Taking a step back from him, she gave him as stern a look as she could manage under the circumstances. "You were bitten by a warg."

"That's all, was it?" His hand was once again at the small of her back, ready to escort her back to the Celebration. "Then I will do again just as soon as I can manage."

#

When they returned to the Chamber of Thrór, Lív found she need not have been worried about gossip, as no one paid them any mind. The chamber was too crowded for any but the most attentive to mark the comings and goings of any particular dwarves. Of course, three such interested spectators were waiting right where Lív and Dwalin had left them.

Balin, Óin, and Glóin wore smug grins but said nothing about the couple's prolonged absence when they rejoined their party. Conversation was taken up once again, though Lív and Dwalin contributed little. Although they did not dance again, they stood side by side, their shoulders lightly touching, as they listened to the others in their talk.

Truth be told, Lív could hardly focus on what was said. Now and then she tried to moderate her expression to curtail the grins that reflected an enjoyment having nothing to do with Glóin's and Óin's lengthy discussion of trade with the Blue Mountains. Overall, she must look far happier than was reasonably expected, but she didn't care. The mere thought of Dwalin's kisses sent a fluttering, tugging sensation from her belly down to her toes.

He was not strictly the first dwarf to ever kiss her. Way back in her youth, she had been kissed by a male friend in the Iron Hills. Although borne out of curiosity, that kiss had been innocent, awkward, and a thing she was happy had not been repeated. In every aspect, Dwalin's kisses had a decidedly opposite effect.

She stole a glance at him only to find him watching her. She had to dart her eyes away, less for embarrassment than a fear she might succumb to temptation and throw herself into his arms again with the whole Mountain as witness. He nudged her with his shoulder and she breathed out a laugh.

Eventually it came time for her to turn in for the evening. Although she savored being at Dwalin's side, she could expect a busy morning the following day as dozens of hungover dwarves filed in to the infirmary seeking remedies for headaches and upset stomachs. She would need such remedies, herself, if she did not retire soon.

At her announcement that she must take her leave, Dwalin graciously offered to escort her to her chambers. Óin and Glóin shared in a titter of laughter that only intensified under his heavy glower.

"An excellent suggestion, Brother," Balin said jovially, "although perhaps it would be best if I come along, too. I'd hate for you to get lost on your way."

Óin and Glóin maintained just enough decorum to bow to Lív before they wandered away together, laughing as they went. Dwalin's mouth turned down in a decided frown. It was easy to see he was little used to being teased in such a way by his friends.

She laced one hand in the crook of his elbow. "Thank you for your offer, Balin, but I feel confident we can find our own way."

Balin smirked but made no argument. He bowed to them as they left the great chamber.

Walking slowly through the corridors, Lív looked up at Dwalin. "You mustn't be upset with your friends. They were only having a bit of fun."

"At my expense," he grumbled.

"And mine." She pinched at his bicep, which was not an easy feat, for his arm was pure muscle. "I am the maiden here - if anyone should be offended, it's me."

"That's actually serving to make me more unhappy with them."

She laughed but spoke no more of it. When they reached her chamber door, she turned to bid him goodnight. He took her hand and kissed it before gently pressing a single kiss to her waiting mouth.

"Goodnight, Lív." He was yet close enough that his breath played over her hair. She had never felt so weak in her life.

Letting herself into her rooms, she returned the farewell before he departed. She quickly made herself ready for bed and slipped beneath her covers. Despite intending to go right to sleep, she lay in bed thinking of all that had passed between herself and Dwalin. She turned over every moment in her mind, relishing each delightful memory. His sweet words, although few in number, gave a chill each time she remembered them. As she thought of the kisses they'd shared, the greedier she became for more.

Whatever was happening between them, she did not want it to stop.


	10. Chapter 10

Dwalin and Hanar circled about in the training rooms, axe and sword flying as they each tested the other for weakness. The two attacked, lunged, and parried with practiced precision, for Hanar was one of the most skilled warriors under Dwalin's command. Even so, they did not simply go through the motions - both males were exerting themselves to the best of their abilities. Dwalin's bare chest was streaked with sweat and his bald head shone from his efforts. They had been sparring far too long already - he was tired and aching for a rest, but that only made him work all the harder to get Hanar to yield.

Dwalin never yielded.

Hanar lunged at him but Dwalin parried the stroke with his axe, taking the sword down with it. Hanar scrambled to recover his weapon and get out of Dwalin's range. The axe came down again inches from one of Hanar's feet and Dwalin wondered that the lad had left himself so open to attack. He waited patiently for another sign of weakness. It would come. Hanar was as tired as Dwalin, perhaps even more so - for all his youth, he had less endurance.

"I saw you at the Celebration last night, Captain." Hanar's eyes shone as he gauged Dwalin's response. He lashed out, the move obvious before he ever twitched.

"I didn't see you," Dwalin grumbled as he easily parried the attack.

"No indeed, I'd imagine you saw little." Hanar smirked, although the confident expression was at odds with the way he panted for breath. "Your attentions were occupied."

Dwalin made no answer as he swung at Hanar in a wide arc. The younger dwarf moved out of the way at the last moment, but spun to send his sword towards Dwalin's leg. The blade was blocked with Dwalin's axe handle, but only just.

"Distractions won't work on an orc." Dwalin set his axe towards Hanar, who deftly parried it.

"No, but I am not fighting an orc, I am fighting you." He thrust his sword straight at Dwalin, who had to jump out of the way. Although well trained, Hanar was still young enough that his mouth pulled into a trace of a smile whenever he felt he had the upper hand, as he did now. That telling smile would be the death of him if he didn't control it.

"How are the healing rooms these days?" Again with the smirk.

Dwalin's silence only made the younger dwarf grin, knowing his words had hit their mark. Whether his weapon could do the same was yet to be seen. Dwalin was ready to beat the cockiness from him one way or another. If he thought he could school his captain, he was sorely mistaken.

They continued to strike and parry, seemingly equally matched. Dwalin was pleased Hanar had come so far in the last few years, but he'd be damned if he would lose a round to him.

Hanar smiled as he watched Dwalin. "I understand our healer is betrothed to a dwarf in the Iron Hills."

Dwalin stopped as though struck. Hanar's grin widened and he took a step closer, apparently enjoying the victory of such shock on his captain's face. Dwalin took that moment to close the distance between them and swept his foot behind Hanar, knocking the younger dwarf's legs from beneath him. Hanar landed hard on the floor where his sword skittered away on the stone. His breath rushed from his lungs in a whoosh that turned into a groan as Dwalin straddled his chest, digging his knees into Hanar's upper arms.

Dwalin set his axe blade at Hanar's throat, his eyes blazing at the dwarf beneath him. "Do you yield?"

Speech was apparently not an option for Hanar, who blinked hard and nodded his head slightly. Dwalin moved the axe from his neck, but didn't alter his crushing hold.

"Like I said, distractions won't work. Better to rely on your skill with a sword than your skill with words." Hanar blinked again, acknowledging the lesson. Finally, Dwalin got off of him. Hanar rolled to one side, gasping and wheezing for breath.

Dwalin left the training room without a look back. Hanar would be fine again in a few minutes. Ten at the outside.

While he cleaned himself up, he thought over Hanar's foolish ruse. It was obvious that Hanar was only trying to get him to lower his defenses, and so he had - handily defeating him when Hanar let down his own to gloat. As he had said, such tactics of distraction would be useless against orcs.

Even so, the idea that Lív could possibly be betrothed to another had sent a pang of bitter jealousy through him. Hanar's ploy had worked, as far as that went.

He didn't care that Hanar had seen him with Lív at the Celebration and guessed his feelings for her. Any fool would come to the same conclusion, and he knew it. His only concern was to make sure that she knew his feelings, too. His actions of the evening, while somewhat in check, had been more like those of his young recruits rather than a dwarf of his age and status. She deserved better than groping kisses in a corridor.

Still - what kisses they were. He wanted her, that couldn't be denied. And he didn't just want her in his bed, he wanted her by his side. He'd never thought of such a thing before. Friends had courted and married, and he'd watched with the idle unconcern of one untouched by love. Now suddenly, at this late date, he wanted someone of his own?

And it was late, despite her seeming disinterest in their age difference. She was still young enough to have children and share a life with someone, but he - he should have been past all such desires. Or should he? He was not so terribly old, after all. He was not wandering aimlessly about in his dotage, unable to care for himself, let alone a wife.

 _A wife?_ Dwalin groaned as he toweled off his chest. He was far gone, indeed, if such thoughts were in his head.

After donning fresh clothes, he slowly walked through corridors, still turning this new idea of a wife over in his mind. Passing the armory, he heard the distinctive sound of a shirt of mail cascading as it's being donned. There was no change in shift that should have demanded anyone's presence inside the armory, let alone a need to gear up. He stepped quietly through the doors and heard whispered chatter as he did so.

There stood three lads dressed in chain mail far too large for them. They giggled softly as they stuck out their chests and lifted invisible weapons in the air. The boys nodded approval at each other, thoroughly delighted with themselves and utterly ignorant of Dwalin's silent observation.

It was harmless enough - how many times had he found overeager dwarflings examining stores of armor over the years? At the same time, Dwalin's anger rose that three lads old enough to know better had snuck into the armory and were actually trying on the mail. This was no family armor, it was the mail of Erebor's army, and not to be touched for just any passing whim.

One of the boys he recognized as Askel, the son of Lív's friend. The boy had black hair, sharp blue eyes, and a wide grin on his face.

"Let's see how we look with swords." Askel had turned towards the wall of arms when he caught sight of Dwalin. The mischievous grin he wore faded until it turned into a look of horror at seeing the Captain of Erebor staring back at him.

He was right to be frightened, for the mention of swords had sent Dwalin's anger to the edge. He might have overlooked them trying on the mail, but playing with the army's store of weapons was absolutely forbidden. He took the few short steps towards the boys and grabbed Askel by the scruff of his neck.

"What do you think you're doing?" he growled.

The boy looked up at him wide-eyed, silently pleading his case. The other two cowered and quickly shuffled out of the mail shirts, letting them fall onto the floor unceremoniously.

"Pick those up and put them back where you found them." Dwalin's hand was still tight on Askel while the others scrambled to put the mail stores back to rights.

"No one's answered me." His voice was dangerously low. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Please," Askel said, "we just wanted to try them on."

"I can see that." Dwalin let Askel go with a slight shove. "Take it off."

Askel slipped out of the mail shirt and set it with the others. He turned his gaze back to Dwalin and his fearful pleading was almost more than the older dwarf could take.

"You're lucky I don't beat some sense into you." The lads trembled at this threat, but it was a bluff. He would be glad to dole out whippings for this, but such measures were for their parents to decide. "Let's go." He gestured brusquely to the doorway, and the three jostled each other to escape him.

Dwalin's charges skulked through the corridors with him at their heels making sure they didn't run off. They were met with a few curious glances - it was clear the lads had been collared, and the gossips of the Mountain whispered in their wake.

After he took two of the lads to their families and explained what they had been caught doing, Dwalin followed Askel to his rooms. Of the three, he was most livid with this one. That he had spent an hour entertaining the boy at the Celebration made him take the disrespectful romp through the armory as a personal insult.

Runa was shocked when Dwalin told her of Askel's trespassing in the armory. "Captain Dwalin, I apologize on behalf of my son. He was taught better than to act with such disregard for rules." She, too, stepped forward to take him by the neck. The lad's flesh there would be bruised for the next week.

Dwalin and Runa glared daggers at the younger dwarf, who stood straight and tall, despite his anxious expression. He didn't look at either of them but kept his eyes on the floor. Whether this reluctance to meet their eyes stemmed from shame or pride, Dwalin couldn't tell.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

The boy gestured vaguely and shrugged his shoulders. "We didn't mean anything by it."

"No, you didn't," Dwalin said. "You know nothing of the -" He stopped as though he'd been slapped across the face. He was quoting Thorin's words to the ghost of Kíli. Askel's appearance, his attitude, his cocky grin - the lad was too like Thorin's nephew. Had Dwalin not found Kíli and Fíli doing exactly the same thing in the Blue Mountains' armory long years ago? The very sight of the boy hurt Dwalin's heart in a way he hadn't understood.

"Please, Captain Dwalin, don't be angry." Dwalin's confused silence had given Askel his voice. "I have no one to train me until I'm of age. I just wanted to know what it felt like to be a real warrior."

"I hope you enjoyed it, because it's as close as you're going to get." Dwalin turned to depart Runa's chambers.

Askel ran to his side as though he could stop him leaving. "What do you mean? Can't I be trained when I'm of age?"

He turned his fierce gaze on the boy. "No."

Askel looked as though he'd been stabbed in the heart. For the briefest moment Dwalin reconsidered, but instead he walked through the door, ignoring the boy's pleading. His focus was entirely on his own pain.

#

Dwalin walked to Ravenhill to try to cool his anger with Askel. Was it anger with Askel, or anger with himself? Or the simple fact that life was unfair? What did he expect at his age, that life was all daisies and everyone lived forever? His friends were gone and nothing he did could change that - not his battle rages, not the way he held everyone at a distance, not his resentment of Bard and all the rest. Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli were dead and he was powerless to do anything about it.

Gazing out over the valley below, his anger abated, but the pain of his loss only increased. He rather wished he had something new to fuel his rage, that his sorrow would be overridden once more. How long had he been seething so only to cover his grief? Each time he thought he had it in check, a memory of Thorin or the lads would come over him and he'd be swept away by his emotions again.

For the first time, he allowed himself to fully feel the regret he'd been doing his damnedest to ignore for four years. The ones he loved and swore to protect had died, yet he lived on, and he hated himself for it. A part of him hated that everyone he blamed for those deaths also lived on. Even the wretched orcs lived on, though he did what he could to put an end to that.

He kicked pointlessly at a boulder, the pain it caused cutting through his anguish. _This_. This was what Balin had meant that afternoon in Dale. He had to let this sorrow go. If he didn't, it would drown his very soul. He had spoken to Lív that day on the Greenway as though he had his own grief in check, but it still fought to rule his heart and mind. His life could not revolve around the dead, treading cautiously lest their memories stir him to grief and rage once more. He needed to bring it under control, but damn if he knew how.

After hours in the cold air on Ravenhill, he returned to the halls of Erebor. He stormed through the stone corridors, leaving eddies of dwarves in his wake. Climbing the steps to the royal corridors, he thought of nothing beyond himself.

When he reached the doorway to his chambers, he was surprised to see Lív standing in front of it. Her arms were folded and the cross look she gave him was a jarring contrast from her usual demeanor. Of course, she had already heard of his confrontation with Askel from her friend.

"May I speak with you a moment?" Her words were more of a command than a question.

He nodded as he reached past her to open the door and gestured for her to enter. She had never been in his chambers before - he was surprised she knew where they were at all. That she may have had to endure the embarrassment of inquiring after them gave him pause.

"I've been looking all over for you." She walked into his sitting room. He didn't want to sit just then, but it didn't seem she was in the mood to, either. They stood on opposite sides of the room, a distance that any other time would have been far too much but just now seemed entirely too little.

"I tried the training rooms, the forges, I even sought out Balin in his study. I would have visited the armory but I didn't want to get banished." Yes, she was angry with him, but there was the tiniest spark of amusement in the turn of her mouth. Then again, perhaps it was only sarcasm.

He sighed, not wanting to discuss this. He didn't have to justify anything to her. "The boys should have known better than to do such things."

"Yes, they should have. But do they really deserve to be forbidden from training? You did tell Askel he couldn't be trained, didn't you?" There was an air of hopefulness to her question, as though she thought maybe the boy had only exaggerated. She had that much faith in him. Too bad he must let her down.

"Aye, I did."

"That's all he's ever wanted."

"Then he should have had more sense than to enter the armory. They knew the rules, their fathers -"

"They don't have fathers anymore, none of them do." Her words were steady but their tone illustrated her irritation with him. "All three were lost in the Battle of Five Armies. Why else do you think they would risk such a thing?"

He had forgotten Askel's father had fallen in the battle. Dwarflings not yet of training age could be taught to wield weapons privately by their parents if they so desired. He guessed Runa had no inclination to the training of her son or daughter. Of course the boy was fascinated with armor and weapons - he'd likely not had any interaction with them in the years since his father died.

"Why would you forbid the training of one whose sole desire in life is to become a warrior like you?" There was an edge of steel to her voice that betrayed her own mixed feelings about warriors. How many had she tended as healer over the years? She probably did not even want Askel to be a warrior but defended his right to it all the same.

Her persistence only worked to set his mind even more on the decision. "If he cannot follow directions, he cannot become a warrior. Simple as that."

"Simple as that? How nice it must be to live in a world with such strict rules of black and white." She apparently had nothing left in her arsenal now but sarcasm.

"It's not your concern."

She wasn't to be brushed off. "Askel worships you and the soldiers of Erebor. You cannot take his hopes and dreams away from him over something so petty."

"Petty? You'd not think it so if he and his friends had been brought to you in the infirmary. They could have been injured or worse. Weapons are not like a woman that you just go and fondle any time you get the inclination."

She flinched and he wished his words back. He opened his mouth to apologize, but she was quicker.

"Actually, they are like women. Men can be forbidden from ever touching either one again, it seems." If he thought she was angry with him before, it was nothing compared to this. Her eyes were little balls of green fire that sought to bore holes right through his chest. Facing Smaug again would be a welcome change from the sight of this wrath.

He took a step closer to her. "Lív, forgive me. I would knock down any man who said such crude things to you - I should not have done so myself."

"No, you shouldn't." She threw her shoulders back with renewed resolve. "But we weren't talking about me, we were talking about Askel."

He didn't want to talk about Askel, he wanted to apologize for his words until the light in Lív's eyes sparkled with affection again rather than anger. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until their frustrations and sorrow washed away. He wanted to lay her down until nothing else mattered.

"Lív-"

"Will you allow Askel to train when he comes of age?" She was not going to let him apologize again, it seemed.

"You want me to go against my word, if only because you ask it of me?" Even as he scorned the idea, he knew that there was little he would not do if she asked it.

"No, not because I ask it. Because you were in a fit of temper and said what you didn't mean."

"I did mean it." Dwalin folded his arms to match her own defiant stance. Her obstinance made him dig in his heels all the harder. "Being a warrior means following orders. Running off and doing whatever you please gets you killed. If you can't follow orders, you can't be a warrior. Simple as that."

"Simple as that," she whispered again. She nodded slowly and turned to go to the door.

"Lív," he said, rushing to her side just as Askel had done to him hours earlier.

"Follow orders," she said without looking at him, "and don't talk to me for a little while." She strode out the door without a glance back.

As soon as the door closed, he slammed his fist against it. He didn't need her, and he certainly didn't want her if she was going to walk away from a fight. Did she think he would chase after her? She could go, and he would be well rid of her.

It was not five minutes later he left his chambers to find her. He had behaved like an ass. He was right about Askel being reckless, but she had been right about _him_ \- he had let his temper carry him away, first with Askel and then with her. He wasn't used to having someone hold him accountable for such things.

The truth of it was, he wasn't used to having someone have such sway over him as she did. Why should he care that she thought he was being unreasonable? But he did care, and he needed to fix this, now.

A glance told him she wasn't in the healing rooms. No answer came to his knocks on her chamber door. He couldn't be sure she wasn't ignoring him, but kicking her door down wouldn't win him any favors in this fight. As a last resort, he climbed one of the staircases that led to the Greenway.

She wasn't in sight. Lív didn't want to be found. He sighed as he looked down into the main corridor, and then laughed at the absurdity of the situation. After months of stumbling upon her every place he went, when he most wanted to find her she was not to be seen.

Gazing down at the dwarves moving about on their business, he laughed again with more bitterness. Here was Erebor, renewed to glory, and Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli lay dead in caverns deep below. It made no sense. It was wrong. Mahal knew he had tried to right it, but such things could not be undone.

Returning down the stairway he had climbed, he decided to go down another, and then another. Always he headed lower, down staircases and walkways, until he reached the Halls of the Fathers. He passed the guards stationed there who gave him cautious glances but made no attempt to hinder him. He was in such a state, they would have been in for a fight if they'd tried.

His steps slowed. In the four years since their passing, he had not yet ventured here. The reality of their tombs had been too much for him to bear. But here they were, just as Balin had described - Thorin's tomb, with Fíli and Kíli on either side. The last of the line of Durin, his friends and kin.

Dwalin walked closer until he stood at the foot of Thorin's tomb. The arkenstone had been placed within, upon Thorin's breast. It seemed fitting to bury the stone in the Mountain once more, yet also wrong to seal it up with the one who had been driven mad by it. Did it torment Thorin even in death, or had it finally brought him peace? Orcrist lay upon the top of the tomb, its hilt glittering faintly in the torchlight. Fíli's and Kíli's tombs bore nothing but the rune stones that marked their names.

He had brought no offering, nothing to lay at their feet but his own sorrow. He exhaled heavily for grief as he brushed his fingers lightly on each tomb in turn, paying silent tribute.

"It was a privilege to know you." His words echoed strangely in the close chamber as though his friends had repeated the sentiment back to him. "May we meet again in the Halls of Mandos."

Hours later, Dwalin once more climbed the stairways to the royal corridors. Visiting the tombs of his friends had not brought the peace he sought, but the burden he carried felt lessened. He did not feel light but neither did he feel so weighed down. For now, it was enough.


	11. Chapter 11

Lív's stomach roiled with a bitter disappointment that had her tossing uncomfortably in her bed. The argument with Dwalin echoed in her mind until she could have repeated its entirety by heart. His willingness to write off a boy she looked on as family, his pig-headed refusal to lighten the harsh sentence he had handed down, the callous thing he had said about women - all of it whirled through her thoughts, keeping her awake when she wanted nothing more than to sleep and be numb to the fact that they'd ever quarreled.

Had it been wrong of her to walk away from him? A moment to cool off had seemed the best option at the time. They had reached a stalemate and neither was willing to budge on their stance. More to the point, they had both been growing angrier, which only served to worsen an already poor situation. Maybe Dwalin hadn't intended to hurt her, but he had all the same, and she had been only too ready to say something spiteful in return. No, walking away had been for the best.

She wasn't sure what was more dismaying, that Dwalin would cut Askel off from everything he wanted in life, or that he would say such hurtful words to her. How would Askel handle being denied training after looking forward to it so long? Had Dwalin meant what he said about fondling women whenever one got the inclination? Was that all she was to him? That she might have fallen in love with someone who was just passing time was almost too much to bear.

A voice in the back of her mind whispered that Dwalin loved her. Their hearts had already been threaded together, though they'd not said the words. Still, that night her wounded pride was hardly inclined to listen to such a voice when Dwalin's own stinging words echoed in her thoughts.

Knowing sleep to be impossible, she left her bed early and got dressed. She slipped through the corridors, her feet making soft sounds in the stillness. After checking that no one needed assistance in the healing rooms, she turned towards her refuge. The exercise of climbing the long flight of stairs to the Greenway felt strange in some way she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Once she reached the balcony, she looked down into the main corridor. It was almost entirely empty at this hour, with only one or two dwarves occasionally crossing the lanes. It dawned on her that here was the source of her disquiet - she was used to the hum of Erebor's busyness, not this silence while the Mountain slept. The vast chamber seemed entirely too large in its emptiness and for the first time the scene failed to bring her consolation.

She passed some time watching the Mountain slowly wake and begin its daily cycle of activity. A sense of anticipation filled her as she gazed into the cavern. Her visits to the Greenway had always brought peace, and it was such another comfort that she patiently awaited. After a time, she came to the slow realization that the peace she needed would not be ushered in by any view of the Mountain this time. What solace she had hoped to find could only come through reconciliation.

She could not yet bring herself to seek Dwalin in his chambers again. The embarrassment of waiting for him on his doorstep was too fresh in her memory. She would go to the infirmary and try to distract herself in work.

#

By late afternoon, with nary a patient to tend all day and only so much she could do without one, Lív ultimately decided to abandon the infirmary. She wanted to see how Askel was coping in the aftermath of yesterday's declaration by Dwalin that he couldn't train to be a warrior. Although most of her thoughts had selfishly tended towards Dwalin and herself, the lad's disappointment had been on her mind. He was too young to have such ardent hopes dashed.

Her knock at Runa's chambers was swiftly answered by Askel. He grinned when he saw her - a far cry from the crushed spirit that had been on full display the afternoon before.

"Lív, you won't believe the good news." He never did greet visitors properly. "Come in, you won't believe it." Askel swept her into the room in a rush of excitement.

"Dwalin?" Her outburst at seeing him in her friend's sitting room was as impolite as Askel's offhand greeting. Seated in an armchair, he immediately stood at her arrival. His sheepish expression was strangely at odds with his imposing form. A dwarfling caught with his hands in the sweets could not have looked more guilty than he did just then.

Runa walked into the sitting room holding a steaming teapot. "Lív, come and join us. Captain Dwalin is paying us a visit, but I don't think he'll mind the addition," she said with a wink.

Lív hadn't seen Runa since the unpleasantness in Dwalin's chambers. She hadn't wanted to discuss it, even with her oldest friend, and she hadn't had the heart to tell Askel that Dwalin wouldn't alter his sentence. Runa had no idea of the awkward situation her guests were in.

Perplexed by his presence here, Lív sat on the settee opposite Dwalin, where she could hardly help but stare. She was not alone, for at her side was Askel, watching him with that same reverential awe he'd had at the Celebration. Astra, too, watched Dwalin, although from a different vantage - she had drawn a little stool close to his chair. The dwarfling said nothing but stared up at him with open curiosity. When all had taken their places, Dwalin finally sat down again.

Lív was at an utter loss for what was happening. Dwalin in her friend's sitting room, Askel and Astra gaping at him as though he were Durin reincarnate, Runa serenely pouring tea as though nothing were amiss - none of it quite made sense.

Runa passed cups of tea to her guests. "As you know, Lív, Askel got into a spot of trouble yesterday. Captain Dwalin has come today to suggest a proper punishment."

Dwalin shifted in his chair before turning his eyes to Lív. "I was saying I want Askel and the other lads to work in the armory for two months. They'll learn to properly care for the army's weapons and armor, and perform all the tasks necessary to maintain them."

Once again, Lív just stared at him in confusion. This wasn't the punishment she expected to hear. Askel was trying to maintain calm, but it seemed a war waged inside him over whether or not it was appropriate to jump for joy.

"I've said I think this is more than fair." Runa drank her tea and subtly waved to Astra, apparently trying to get the girl to leave off her fawning over their guest. Astra couldn't be bothered to notice.

"It _is_ more than fair," Lív repeated stupidly. She felt like she'd slipped on ice again and didn't quite have her footing yet.

Dwalin cleared his throat and looked to Runa. "You'll pardon the intrusion, but any dwarf worth their beard ought to know how to wield a sword. If Askel wants training, I'll see to it myself."

"That's very kind of you, Captain Dwalin." Runa slyly glanced from him to Lív and back. "If Askel is willing, I can have no objection." Askel nodded his enthusiastic agreement. The lad was likely to run through the rooms shouting for joy the moment Dwalin left, but for now he managed to keep still.

Dwalin turned his gaze on Lív then, and the hope he held in his eyes cut straight to her heart. For as stubborn a dwarf as she knew him to be, this reversal was an unusual show of humility. He went above and beyond what any present might have hoped. Her anger of the previous evening was quickly turning to admiration and pride.

"That's settled, then." Dwalin set his teacup aside and Lív realized she'd been too flummoxed by the entire situation to even take a sip of hers. "I won't tread on your hospitality any longer. Askel, I expect to see you and your friends tomorrow morning in the armory, bright and early." Askel nodded his understanding. He would probably be ready and waiting far earlier than was reasonable.

Dwalin stood to go and Lív, too, stood, lest he leave her behind. "I should go, too."

"May I see you wherever it is you're headed?" His formality was dismaying for the distance implied.

"I would like that." She smiled at him, hoping they could put the awfulness of last night behind them. His relief relaxed his mouth into a smile of his own and he offered her his arm. As she took it, she was sure she looked as awestruck as Astra and Askel.

"We'll have to have you both over for supper very soon." Runa's mouth twitched up as she looked at the two of them in her doorway. Dwalin nodded his thanks, apparently seeing nothing odd in the joint invitation, and they departed.

They walked the corridors in strained silence. Lív was yet too confused to speak all the words she'd so often rehearsed the night before. Frustration, anger, hurt, admiration - her heart had caromed about unceasingly since yesterday afternoon.

After a time, she said the thing that seemed on safest ground. "Thank you."

He glanced down at her and a grumbling sound came from his throat. "I owe you an apology and you thank me." Dwalin led them to an out of the way alcove where he turned to face her. "Can you forgive a stubborn old dwarf?"

In answer, she closed the slight distance between them, pressing her cheek against his chest. He kissed the top of her head and seemed to breathe her in, his arms wrapped tight around her. Lacing her arms around his waist, she found the comfort that had been absent on the Greenway.

She pulled back to look him in the eye. "I forgive you. Can you forgive me? I should not think to tell you how to manage your warriors. I know nothing of battle."

"Aye, I forgive you," he said, brushing her hair back from her face. "Though you were more in the right than I was."

She shook her head, unwilling to give him all the blame. "I've spent so many years being in charge, it's difficult for me to allow that anyone else may know better than I do."

"A fault we share, then." A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth.

She gave him a sharp look. "We may drive each other to madness with this shared fault."

He lightly stroked her cheek with his thumb. "I may yet mellow in time."

She couldn't help but laugh at his unfounded optimism. "You do realize you could not give Askel a greater gift than your punishment?"

"I'm aware of it." He pulled her close again and pressed his chin against her head. "His work in the armory won't be light. He does deserve a punishment for his recklessness. I meant what I said, weapons are not to be treated lightly."

"And women?" Her voice was muffled slightly by his tunic, but he caught the words.

Dwalin took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes. His regret was plain. "They're not to be treated lightly, either. I should never have said such things to you yesterday." He sighed in exasperation. "I've spent most of my life in rough living among warriors. It's not easy for me to soften my ways."

She smiled fondly at this admission. "I might have noticed."

"Aye, and you'll need to have patience with an impatient man." He brushed at her hair again, trailing his fingers along her temple, behind her ear, to the back of her neck.

"Do not go on so, or I will feel compelled to list all of my flaws for you, and you'll run screaming from the Mountain."

He broke into a true smile, a sight she loved to see. "Not I." He leaned down and kissed her slowly, almost tentatively. When he pulled back, he glanced about them and soft laughter came from his chest. "Here we are in a hallway again."

She laughed, too, and led them the rest of the way to her chambers. Once inside, she gestured for Dwalin to sit but he shook his head. He stood before the fireplace with a grim expression.

"Yesterday was not entirely Askel's fault, as you might have guessed." He spoke seriously now, his voice low. "He's too like Kíli, in looks and deeds. The reminder was too much. Thorin and the lads, they were family. I carried their bodies off the battlefield, Lív. I'm not yet over their deaths."

"You may never be," she said softly. "You cared for Thorin Oakenshield and his nephews. You will always feel their loss."

"Some days it still cuts me to the quick. Should I not be stronger than this?" He looked at her with a quiet desperation, as though she alone had the answer.

"Do you not see the strength it reveals?" She placed her hands on his chest over his heart. "Your love has not faded away, though they have passed on. I admire that in you." His mouth turned up slightly at this praise. "I am privileged to know someone with such strength of heart."

He leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. "You do know you are here, too? In my heart?"

"I had hoped."

"Lív, Lív," he whispered, "your name means life, and that is what you have given me." She did not answer except by pressing her lips to his.

When at last they parted, she looked up at him with a sly smile. "May I ask you a question? What have you done to Astra? Askel's admiration I understand, but I can't make out why she's so taken with you."

He barked out a laugh. "You can't make out why a lass is taken with me? A lesser dwarf might be offended." He fixed her with a warning look. "While you were dancing with Balin and Óin at the Celebration, the lassie launched into recitations of poetry and the like. She asked if I knew of any, so I told her one."

Her mouth dropped open. "You recited poetry for Astra?" Would this dwarf ever not take her by surprise?

"Most anything will sound lovely if you say the words right."

One corner of her mouth turned up. "What did you recite for her?"

He circled her waist with his arms. "It told of a man's great appreciation and admiration."

She quirked her eyebrows. "For?"

Dwalin smiled. "His axe."

#

Snow fell thick in Dale. If Dwalin had known the journey would be in such poor conditions, he might not have gone. He was not so desperate to see the place again that he must trek a league through snowdrifts. But gone he had, trudging alongside the dwarves pulling a handcart laden with crates of newly-forged swords. Erebor's blacksmiths had incorporated Dale's new insignia into the hilts, but beyond this they were of basic make. Even so, they were far superior to the ones that had been taken from the orc corpses weeks ago. This was the first hundred of the agreement, enough to be sure a strong group of soldiers would be well-armed.

As they approached Dale, the great front gate was slowly pushed open wide by soldiers. The dwarves tugged the cart safely inside Dale's walls before the gates were shut again. Dwalin watched as Men unloaded the crates from the handcart with care. Whatever he might think of the race of Men generally, these soldiers, at least, understood the value of good weapons.

"Dwalin, I did not expect to see you." Bard strode over, looking for all the world like a beggar. Although dressed in layers against the cold, he yet wore the tattered old coat he'd worn on their first meeting. Dwalin was never sure if this humility was natural, or an affectation adopted to better fit in among people who were unused to having anything so lofty as a king.

"It seemed a fine day for a walk."

Large snowflakes fell into Bard's black hair as he looked about. "Oh yes, excellent weather for it," he said dryly. "Can I invite you into the halls for a warm up before you head back? We've still a few hours of light left. Your soldiers are welcome, too, of course."

Dwalin inclined his head in acceptance. He and the other soldiers followed Bard into the main halls of Dale. Though unexpected by Dwalin, the reception had apparently been well planned. Over a roaring fire was hung a great kettle from which came a spicy aroma that filled the room. In addition to the warming cider, a table was laden with more than enough provisions for the fifteen dwarves who had made the short journey from Erebor.

Dwalin approached the fire and sniffed at the great pot. A soldier of Dale filled a mug and passed it to him. "How many did you think were coming? This kettle holds enough drink for fifty."

"I was not the mastermind behind this, to be honest." Bard's mouth tugged at the edges. "My wife wanted to be sure the dwarves of Erebor were well received."

Dwalin watched his soldiers fill their plates and mugs with greedy eagerness. They could not be so cold and hungry as all that. Yet it was free, after all - why not indulge in Bard's hospitality while they had the chance?

He took a drink from his mug. While he would have preferred a cold ale to mulled cider, it was not bad, and did the trick to warm him up nicely. "Your wife is generous."

Bard, too, watched the dwarves partake of food and drink. "She grew fond of Lív in the short time they were together."

"Lív does grow on a person."

Bard nodded sagely but made no remark. Smart man. Dwalin gave him a stony stare. "Have you seen any orcs of late?"

Bard's expression was suddenly serious. "None in the last few weeks. Their absence is not unusual in winter, yet I don't like the idea of them lying low, mustering their strength."

Dwalin neither liked to think of them lying low nor on the move. Dead and burned had first preference. That the orcs might seek out the Iron Hills in their desperation was still a concern. Then again, no place was safe when orcs were out of their minds with hunger. His scouts had seen neither hide nor hair of them, but that was no guarantee of security.

"Better that they lie low than roam about in madness." Dwalin kept his voice low. "A starving orc is worse than any rabid animal. You'd do well to put these new swords in the hands of your soldiers as quick as you may."

"You can count on it. My men will be lining up to trade in their arms as soon as the crates are opened."

They stood a moment and just watched as soldiers of Dale and Erebor mingled together while they ate. A few engaged in a rowdy conversation to see who had the highest number of battle kills. Dwalin just shook his head at his soldiers' boasts. He'd put them all to shame if he joined in the comparison, but he wouldn't do such a thing. Let the lads be proud of their tens and twenties. Would they had no opportunity to increase those counts.

"In days of old, no orc would have dared come within fifty leagues of the Lonely Mountain."

"Perhaps the orcs need a new lesson in the might of dwarves and men." This was no mere boast of the kind the soldiers were enjoying. Bard seemed in earnest. "I assume you have plans to find them come spring?"

"Aye, to find their holes and burn them out." He looked forward to the day they were found and destroyed.

"Consider, then, an alliance between our kingdoms in the effort."

"Let your soldiers tag along, you mean," Dwalin scoffed.

"Your pride will be your undoing, Captain Dwalin." Bard's insulting tone rather canceled out his polite use of Dwalin's title. His gaze was hard and unflinching. "It's in everyone's best interest to rid these lands of orcs. You're not the only one with a score to settle. You'd do well to remember it." He nodded once and swiftly departed the room.

Dwalin pondered Bard's offer on his slow return to the Mountain. Dale and Erebor had not fought together since the Battle of Five Armies. They'd had little need - until recently, the roving bands of orcs tended to the smaller side and proved easy enough to overcome. Certainly Erebor would not call on Dale for aid.

He could not deny there was some sense in Bard's words, though. Seeking out the orc stronghold would be quicker work for Dale's scouts riding horseback than any dwarf going on foot. If battle were at hand, he'd be a fool to refuse additional soldiers.

And yet, to join forces with the race of Men was an admission of shortcoming. Men were inherently weaker than Dwarves, falling ill at the slightest chill. Even well armed and clad in mail, Men were far more likely to die in battle than any Dwarf soldier. Bard's forces numbered barely one third of Erebor's, with younger soldiers who had little training. Calling on them could be nothing short of a last resort.


	12. Chapter 12

Dwalin always suspected he would live to regret his generous nature. Offering to train Askel had sounded good - the lad was as near to Lív as family, and he had needed to make things up to her. But the reality of it was, he didn't work with dwarflings for a reason - he had no patience for it. He was out of practice with their reckless exuberance and utter lack of skill with a blade. Frankly, he hadn't trained a dwarfling since Fíli and Kíli and was at his wits' end after ten minutes with Askel.

He'd given Askel a dull training blade, more out of concern for the lad's safety than his own. Even so, as soon as he had it in hand, Askel swung it about so wildly he nearly knocked himself in the head. Dwalin could just imagine Lív's incredulous scoldings if he had to bring the boy to her with a scalp wound.

Askel kept trying to wield the sword single-handed, rather than double as Dwalin had showed him. He reminded himself it was the lad's first time in the training rooms, but his frustration was at its limits. Askel was just far too excited to contain himself, so Dwalin had him run around the room to try to burn off a bit of that energy. After five laps, Askel returned to Dwalin out of breath but eager to take his sword up again.

Dwalin refused to hand it over. "Wait a moment." Askel drew his hand back in hurt confusion. "If I'm going to train you, you'll need to do exactly and only what I say. Is that clear?"

The lad's bright blue eyes were suddenly somber. "Yes, Captain Dwalin."

"None of this swinging the sword around. Careful control is what we're after."

"Yes, Captain Dwalin."

A few soldiers lingered near the arena where he lectured Askel. "Move along," he shouted as he waved them on. Apparently disappointed to miss out on the show, they slowly shuffled off. The last thing Askel needed at this stage was an audience. It wasn't too likely to help Dwalin's efforts, either.

"Using a weapon is deadly business. If I think you're not taking this seriously, I won't bother myself to train you. Understand?"

Askel swallowed hard. "Yes, Captain Dwalin."

After this lecture, the lad did a better job following directions. They mostly worked on proper grip, stance, and terminology, but at least now he did as Dwalin asked rather than flourish the sword about like a fool. That was why Dwalin preferred axes - no one ever waved them about for show. That, and they were brutal.

At the end of the lesson, Dwalin allowed Askel to try to strike him with the sword. The lad lunged and jabbed, but Dwalin easily avoided these moves. Askel worked himself into a full sweat as he frantically slashed his sword through the air, using far more effort that was needed, but he grinned all the while.

Finally, Dwalin called an end to it. He poured a mug of water for each of them, and they sat on a bench to rest a moment. Askel gulped at his water and ran his fingers through his black hair, pulling the lanky clumps back from his forehead. He still wore that crooked grin, apparently too delighted for words.

Fíli and Kíli had been just the same in their day. At first, Thorin intended to train only Fíli, as he was the older. Kíli had been unhappy at having to wait five more years for his turn, but seemed to bear his disappointment well. Only later did they realize that each evening after going to bed, Fíli showed Kíli everything he'd worked on that day. Training them together had seemed the safest course rather than risk injury to both in those late night demonstrations.

Kíli had grinned like a little madman the entire first week of his instruction. He couldn't get over his good fortune at being allowed to train alongside his brother. The fact that he was to be taught by his Uncle and _Mister Dwalin_ only added to his excitement. Dwalin did not pretend to be on a level with Thorin Oakenshield, but he knew the lads had looked up to both of them with a sort of reverential adoration.

Mahal, that was an age ago.

"Captain Dwalin, did you know my father?" The lad's eyes were bright with hope.

"I can't say I did."

Askel's shoulders slumped a bit, but he nodded understanding. "He was a really brave warrior."

"I'm sure he was."

Askel nodded again, resigned to bitter acceptance of his father's death. Asgrim couldn't be brought back - there was nothing for the lad to do but carry on. Dwalin hadn't been much older than Askel when his own father was killed by orcs. His memories of Fundin had dimmed through the years, but his loyalty to him still burned with a bright ferocity. So it would be with Askel.

"Why don't you go on home. Practice the stances I showed you, and I'll see you next week."

"Next week?" Askel looked crushed. "Why not tomorrow?"

Dwalin had to laugh at his eagerness. "We'll work up to it."

Askel seemed pleased to know it wasn't a permanent situation. He stood and made a slight bow. "Thank you, Captain Dwalin."

He nodded and the boy scampered off. Dwalin chuckled to himself as he eased back against the wall, stretching his legs out before him. Dwarflings weren't so bad, when you got used to them. Perhaps he had patience enough to train them, after all. One or two, anyway.

#

Once again, Lív found herself carefully examining her reflection in the mirror as she prepared for an evening out. Dwalin had invited her to have dinner in Balin's chambers with him and his friends from Thorin's company. He had explained that although they all were busy with various endeavors throughout the Mountain, the ten of them gathered together now and then for old time's sake. He also mentioned something about these parties sometimes ending in argument and disaster, so she had little idea what to expect from the evening.

When he knocked at her door, she opened it to find him casually dressed in a simple brown shirt and green vest. He was not dressed so fine as he had been for the Winter Celebration, but the change from his usual plain garb was still noticeable.

"By my beard," he said slowly as he stepped over the threshold, looking her up and down, "that color becomes you."

She had found a soft, lightweight wool dyed forest green at the market stalls one afternoon. It so reminded her of the colors Dwalin favored, she bought it and asked Runa to work up a dress for her. When Runa discovered why Lív had selected that particular shade of fabric, she went to great pains to craft the most flattering dress she was able. It seemed Runa's efforts had not been in vain.

"I hoped you would like it," she admitted.

"Oh, I more than like it." He gazed at her so, her cheeks turned hot, though she didn't look away from him. He took her lightly in his arms. "Seeing you in this..." His words trailed off until they were no more than a deep rumble in his throat. His feelings were made plain when he kissed her with firm purpose. She was lost in him as they explored each other, sending a sinking sensation from her belly to the tips of her toes. His hands roved slowly over her back and waist but he stopped himself just shy of going either too low or too high.

He pulled back slightly, shaking his head. "I have strength enough when it comes to fighting orcs, but none at all to resist you."

His kiss was such that she needed a moment to recover from it, and opened her eyes again with difficulty. The grin he wore when she looked up at him was one of unmistakable satisfaction. "All who see you wearing this will know that you are mine."

She had just sense enough for a pert response. "And how will they know that you are mine?"

"Any can see that from a league away."

They left her chambers and he led the way to Balin's rooms. She walked with her arm looped in his, unconcerned by the curious glances they received as they passed through the corridors. Lív guessed most of the dwarves in the Mountain had the same thoughts of Dwalin she'd had before she truly knew him - that he was a fierce fighter with a heart full of rage and little more. They'd all been wrong, of course. He far surpassed all she might have hoped. She beamed up at him, feeling nothing but pride to be on his arm.

When they reached Balin's chambers, Dwalin opened the door to reveal an unruly sight. The several rooms she had seen on her previous visit were now filled with dwarves. It was only eleven of them, but they were all so loud and boisterous, it seemed like thrice that. She tried to take in the scene, dwarf by dwarf, but quickly lost track of them. Two were engaged in some sort of dance demonstration, another great dwarf lounged on one of the settees, while still another stood off to the side flipping through Balin's books. All eyes turned to Lív when Dwalin ushered her through the door.

For the briefest moment the rooms went silent and she felt the weight of eleven curious stares. Then laughter and merriment reigned once more as Balin came forward to welcome her.

"Lív, my dear, you are most welcome. I'm glad you could join us this evening." He looked her over and gave her a sly smile. "That's a very lovely dress you have on." To his brother he merely raised his eyebrows merrily.

Dwalin's hand lingered at her waist as he introduced her to those dwarves she had not yet met. Eventually hellos had gone all around between her and his nine companions from the Blue Mountains, as well as Glóin's wife and son. Her mind spun, working over the tales she had heard of these dwarves whose names were legend in Erebor, whom she now saw in the flesh.

"If it isn't my favorite healer," Óin said, making her laugh. "I heard from Balin of your great success with delivering the King of Dale's child."

She opened her mouth to respond when Glóin spoke up. "Bah. The man's so slippery, I'd have thought any child of his would just slide right out." At this, his wife, Nara, smacked him on the shoulder. "What? We're among friends, I can say what I think. It isn't as though I'm insulting the man to his very face."

These last words were spoken with a significant look to Dwalin, who merely shrugged his indifference. Lív, too, turned curious eyes on him.

"You're still carrying on, are you?" the one called Bofur asked him. "Now, a grudge against the elves I will endorse, but a grudge against Bard seems a bit unfair. He did help us out."

"How exactly did he help us out?" Dori asked.

"He didn't," Glóin said. "He took our money and gave us nothing we asked for in return."

"Bard did take us across the lake," Bofur pointed out.

"And he gave us dry clothes," Ori added.

"Even doing that much isn't exactly helping us out when we paid him to do it," Nori said.

"Agreed," Glóin said. "Receiving payment for services doesn't qualify as generosity."

"How does our generous friend fare these days, Dwalin?" Nori asked with a hint of malice in his voice. "I understand Dale has been rather bothered by orcs of late."

Dwalin glanced from Lív to Nori. "Not in recent weeks."

"Dale is under attack?" she asked him.

Dwalin shook his head no. "They've been hit by the same sorts of bands as we have. They should have no troubles with such small numbers."

"If their walls hold up," Dori said.

"They won't for long," Nori said.

"He asks for masons just as winter is coming on," Dori said with a shake of his head. "Everyone knows you can't build a wall properly in winter."

"Why does Erebor not help them?" Lív asked, her eyes still fixed on Dwalin. He started to answer but was interrupted by Glóin.

"Bard's pride is such that he would never ask for help for anything."

"He asked for me to help with his wife and child."

Glóin shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well, any man would make an exception in such a case as that."

Lív turned her attention back to Dwalin. "Are they in need and we do nothing?" Once again he was interrupted before he could answer.

"Now, I wouldn't go that far," Balin said. "Erebor has agreed to trade for masonry and arms. Their first delivery of weapons arrived two weeks ago, but the masonry can't be done until spring. Dori's right, it's too cold, and the mortar wouldn't set right. But once the walls thaw a bit, we'll see it done. So it's not so grim as our friends make it sound." He gave a rather hard glare to Glóin.

"And he's paying as little as he can get away with, no doubt." Glóin scowled as though just the thought of Bard was distasteful.

"What does price have to do with it?" Lív asked.

"We can't operate on charity."

"Isn't it our duty to help protect our allies from orcs?" She glanced about the room, dumbfounded at their attitude. In the Iron Hills, Dáin had considered the nearby villages of Men to be under his protection and retaliated against any attacks on them as fiercely as though they were his own people. Never had she expected to hear such callousness from those who had fought side by side just a few years previous.

By the way the other dwarves looked away from her, she could see this was a touchy subject for all of them. Getting worked up about it was likely not the best first impression she might have hoped to make. Even so, she hated the idea that Bard, Inga, Bain, and the others of Dale could be left in danger.

She turned to Dwalin. "Do we just stand by when they're attacked?" He looked slightly chastened but didn't answer.

"Aye, we stand by," Glóin said, his brows furrowed just a touch, "same as they stand by when we are under attack. We've lived under the motto of 'To each his own', and it's worked out quite handily so far."

It was not Lív's place to argue over trade or diplomacy, and certainly Balin, Dwalin, and Glóin knew more of the situation than she did, but such disinterest between kingdoms that lay so close was confusing at best. She was formulating a new argument for cooperation when Balin spoke up.

"I'm sure this is all very illuminating, but it's hardly polite conversation for our guest." He nodded significantly in Lív's direction, in case any of them weren't sure who the newcomer was or failed to see her dismay in what she had heard. "Perhaps we could have a change of topic."

Bofur scratched his chin a moment. "All that's coming to my mind are questions for our guest, and I expect not all of them would be considered suitable by other members of our party." He cast a cheeky look at Dwalin, who acknowledged it with a dismissive grunt.

It was at least reassuring to Lív that even among friends, Dwalin's curt responses were unchanged.

"How _did_ you meet Dwalin, Lív?" Nara asked eagerly.

"He was mildly injured in a skirmish a few months ago and I tended him."

"I'm sure that went well," Bofur said with no small amount of sarcasm.

Lív had to smile at the memory of their first meeting. "He was not one of my easiest patients, that's true."

"I believe your exact words were 'most difficult'." Dwalin flashed her the barest smirk.

"That sounds about right," Ori said.

"A bit overdramatic, this one is." Dori thumbed towards Dwalin.

"You're one to talk," Nori put in. "After we escaped the Elvenking's dungeons, who was it that flopped himself out his barrel moaning, 'I'm drowned, I'm drowned, oh, save me'?"

Dori turned slightly away from the other. "I might have been drowned. I'd never swum a day in my life."

Nori laughed at his brother's discomposure. "Nor did you have need to. We were all in floating barrels."

"Water washed in mine." Dori looked put out by this line of conversation. "I could have drowned had we gone on any farther."

"Lucky for us that you didn't." Bofur grinned all around, effectively ending Dori's lament about his supposed near-drowning.

Lív turned curious eyes to Dwalin, but he just shrugged. Every piece of this story was a mystery to her, from the mention of the Elvenking to the barrels. He had not yet told her of his journey from the Blue Mountains, nor could she guess how such elements fit into it. She stored these questions away for later.

In time, they all sat down to dinner. As usual at dwarvish meals, conversation was sparse as they tucked in to their food. Bombur had prepared a delicious spread, apparently seeing fit to use his time off from the great kitchens of Erebor to put himself to use in Balin's own small one. Roast pork, roast chicken, boiled baby potatoes mixed with sage and onion, thick slices of fresh bread, mince pies - Lív was pleasantly stuffed by the time the meal was over.

They all removed to the sitting room, which, with the addition of chairs pulled from the den and dining room, was able to hold them all comfortably. Dwalin drew his chair close to Lív's next to the fireplace as the party enjoyed the restful satisfaction of full bellies after a large meal.

"Won't anyone take up a song?" Óin asked the room generally, his ear trumpet at the ready.

"What, do you think we always come prepared for song and dance?" Bofur looked aghast until he grinned and pulled a clarinet from his pocket. "In fact, we do."

Bofur and his cousin, Bifur both played clarinets and together they performed a rousing tune. The melody was cheerful as the two dwarves' fingers flew along their instruments, setting the others' feet to tapping in time. When their song ended, the room exploded into applause and cheers for more.

Dori, Nori, and Ori were not to be outdone. They, too, had brought instruments and played a jig on flutes. Their audience clapped the beat while Bofur and Bifur danced about happily, despite the cramped quarters.

The scene was so pleasant and merry, Lív was smiling broadly long before she realized it. The fireplace crackled behind her, the warm smell of their dinner still lingered in the air, and all about her was the sound of laughter. Whatever their disagreements in conversation, it could not be said that these dwarves had any contention when it came to their love of music.

As the last notes of the trio's song faded away, Dwalin stood. Lív was surprised to see him take a large instrument from a shadowy corner, and it seemed the entire room watched him with a sense of anticipation.

"You don't mind if I borrow yours, do you Brother?" Dwalin's voice was low as he settled himself back on his chair, the instrument resting lightly between his legs.

"Not at all." Balin's voice cracked slightly, and Lív remembered how he had praised his brother's talent on the viol. He had also said that Dwalin had long given it up.

The instrument's low notes hummed into life as he pulled the bow across its strings. His fingers moved with ease along the viol's neck while he worked the bow in long, careful strokes. The melody he played was slow and haunting, a mournful dirge that was sorrowful yet full of beauty. Long ago, Lív had heard the words to it, but now she could just remember traces. It was a lament for a king, that much she knew.

Tears pricked at her eyes as she watched this powerful dwarf play a song of such grief. She was not alone in this sentiment, for many of the others had tears in their eyes, as well. Balin's had fallen and he cried silently, his eyes fixed on his brother.

When at last the song was finished, Lív felt as though her heart had been taken hold of and caressed in its sorrow before being returned with new life. All the room was hushed until Ori clapped his appreciation, and then all applauded together.

"If you'll indulge me one more..." Dwalin glanced about the room. When his eyes lit on Lív, his mouth quirked up slightly. He looked down at the instrument and seemed to regain his focus before he began.

This song, too, was slow and measured, but unlike the last, it was a song of love. Although he did not sing them, the words that went with it were of a man's joy in finding his beloved. Listening to Dwalin play this song, before all of his friends, Lív could hardly contain the bliss that coursed through her. It seemed she was nothing but happiness made flesh. Had she ever felt such love in all her life? If ever she'd had a voice for song, she might have sung the lyrics back to him. Instead, she was content to listen, captivated by his wordless declaration.

Dwalin let the final note of the song linger until it dwindled to silence. As the other dwarves fell to clapping for his skill, he turned his eyes on her. That even the barest hint of a question lingered in his gaze was shameful to her. Such a dwarf with such a heart should not have to wonder if his affections were returned.

He stood and put Balin's viol back in the corner, shrugging off cheeky compliments from Bofur and requests for an encore. When he sat back down beside her, she reached out and took his hand. They were surrounded by his friends, but she cared nothing for that, she cared only for him. He met her gaze again, and this time his eyes held no question. He lifted her fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to them.

A few more songs were played by the others, and Bofur entertained them all with a saucy rendition of a song of his own devising that spoke of various encounters between awkwardly ardent lovers. Dwalin glared at his friend for the implications, but Lív just squeezed his hand all the tighter.

Eventually the hour grew late and the little party broke up. Lív received many hearty goodbyes and good humored well-wishes before at last it was only she, Dwalin, and Balin who remained.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that you could join us, Lív." Balin shook her hand, paused, and then wrapped his arms around her in a brief hug. "You're welcome anytime. I expect to see a lot more of you."

"All right, all right," Dwalin grumbled as he separated them. "It's long past time I get her home."

"Thank you for the invitation, Balin. This was - " she paused, at a loss for words great enough to convey her feelings. "I had a wonderful time."

Once again, she and Dwalin walked through the corridors of Erebor arm in arm. There were few about at this late hour to witness them, and they walked as slowly as they liked. Her heart was too full to say anything, and it seemed they were in perfect understanding even without words.

At her chamber door, Dwalin looked down at her. "My friends are not always so quarrelsome when they get together." He paused a moment. "Actually, I suppose they are."

"I'm not bothered. It would take more than a few rowdy dwarves to scare off the likes of me."

"Clearly." The low, rumbling word was almost lost on her as she gazed into his grey eyes. He leaned down and they kissed for a long while. His gentleness became more insistent, his hands firm against her back. She, too, grew more ardent, and debated the wisdom of inviting him into her chambers. Thoughts against it were fleeting but enough to restrain the offer.

In time, his kisses became slow and soft again. He couldn't know how such gentleness only fanned the flames of her ardor all the more. When at last he pulled away to press his forehead to hers, a sudden urge came over her.

"I love you," she whispered, her chest churning with a liquid nervousness as she waited in the silence.

She did not wait long. "And I love you." In his gruff voice, the soft words were like a purr, and she thrilled at the sound almost as much as the sentiment.

"It's late." He stood straight again and loosened his hold on her waist. "Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

She nodded as she walked into her chambers and bid him goodnight. Her desires were such that closing him out of her rooms was the last thing she wanted, and she sighed heavily for longing as she leaned against the door.

She loved him. Whatever befell, whatever were to happen between the two of them, she knew she would love Dwalin the rest of her days.


	13. Chapter 13

Lív was tending a dwarfling's injured arm when Dwalin walked into the infirmary. Seeing she was occupied, he lingered by the doorway. She smiled at him from across the room but continued on with her tending of the young boy. He and his brother had snuck into their father's private collection of arms and thought it would be fun to spar with real weapons.

"Everything was going fine until he actually _hit_ me." The boy sniffled as his tears ran down his cheeks, through his sparse beard, and finally splashed onto his bloodstained tunic. His upper arm had been slashed in a wound that was long but not deep.

The older brother stood slightly behind their father, his expression changing from guilt to triumph by turns. "You might have hit me back if you were any better."

The younger boy struggled to get off the cot, ready to lunge at his brother, wounded arm or no. Lív held him back and gave him a stern look as she finished tending his injury. It had at least been a clean, shallow cut. A week or so with a bandage would be enough to take care of it, although given the way these two fought, she fully expected to see them in her care again in the near future.

"Now, listen," she said with the firm voice she always used on boisterous dwarflings, "your arm will heal, but you will need to be careful with it. Don't strain yourself, or it may come open again, and we don't want that."

"Don't strain yourself," his brother repeated. "Don't think too hard or anything like that."

"Finn is the injured one, but if you keep this up, you will be right beside him with a tanned backside." The boys' father had apparently had enough of their bickering. Lív could only imagine what antics they got up to in the privacy of their own chambers.

"Yes, Adâd." The older boy looked down at his boots in shame, which penitence lasted less than one minute before he was making faces at Finn again.

Lív finished up with the boy's arm and sent the family off with a few warnings about not getting the wound dirty, which she guessed would be promptly ignored by Finn. She might have warned them about not sparring with real weapons, but it looked like they would receive an earful from their father as it was.

As the boys darted between the cots, they noticed Dwalin and stopped running. They greeted him in awed whispers and gazed up at him in much the same way one gazed at the great stone dwarves that flanked Erebor's front gate. He nodded at them each in turn, which led to giggles of delight from the boys.

Once the family had left the healing rooms, Dwalin strode over to Lív's side. "They seem like a right handful."

She shook her head in exasperation. "I could barely get the one bandaged for the other's teasing."

"You'd better get used to it. Ours will be far worse." He said this as though it were nothing out of the ordinary.

"Ours?" She was still getting used to the idea that Dwalin loved her - they had not spoken of marriage or children. That he took it as a given was reassuring, yet also unsettling. It was like sitting atop a stone chute as a dwarfling - she was excited to go down that path, but found the prospect just a little frightening.

He stepped closer and put one hand on her waist. "You do want children, don't you?"

She had never wanted anyone for a husband before, let alone considered if she wanted children. But now...now she did want a husband. Looking into Dwalin's eyes somehow made her nerves ease. She would be proud to have children with him. "If opportunity arose, yes."

He shook his head. "You do have a way with answering questions."

She snaked one arm around his waist. "And you have a way with catching me off guard in my own healing rooms."

"I suppose I do." The joy in his eyes made Lív's own heart glad. He seemed to smile more often lately, although she was not sure if this was due to her, or the simple fact that she spent more time with him and therefore had more opportunities to see him at such ease. Either way, she liked nothing more than being the cause of his joy.

"Will you have supper with me in my rooms tonight?" His voice was low, making her heart leap at this invitation.

In dwarvish courtship, it was custom for the male to invite the female into his home, usually for evening meals. These interactions would prove he did, in fact, have a home, and that he was prepared to provide for a wife and family. That on its own made Dwalin's request significant, but it was not the only reason she thrilled at the thought of supper in his chambers. They had spent little time alone together since declaring themselves to one another, and although she longed for their privacy, that very longing gave her pause. It would take but a little temptation for her to lose all resolve. They were not yet betrothed, his invitation to supper notwithstanding, and she should temper her desires with caution.

"I will be happy to." Caution be damned.

He nodded, apparently satisfied with this. "Then I will see you at supper." He took her hand in his and, never taking his eyes from hers, slowly kissed each of her fingers. An exhale too like a moan escaped her lips, and his satisfied smile only widened. He turned and left the healing rooms with a distinct strut to his walk.

#

At Dwalin's knock that evening, Lív smoothed her dress before going to her chamber door. She had been tempted to wear the forest green dress again, but decided she would be facing enough temptation as it was without it. Further demonstrations of affection hardly needed to be encouraged, they came so easily now.

"Good evening." He bowed and held out his hand to her. "Are you ready?"

How could this be the same dwarf whose leg she had tended those months ago? He was so polite and kind, and his very voice delighted her to no end. She loved nothing so much as his half-smiles and the way his eyes shone at her. No, he could not be the dwarf who had bristled at her concern and aroused such irritation in her. Her heart was entirely changed towards him.

"I'm ready." She slipped her hand into his and they set off for his own rooms in the royal halls. She had only visited him there the once, and that had not been a particularly pleasant experience. Considering the current circumstances, she had high hopes this evening would go far better than the last.

Once inside, he swept his arm about as though presenting the rooms to her. "Make yourself comfortable. I have a bit more to do in the kitchen," he said as he snuck away down the hall.

Lív took the opportunity to look about as she had not done on her first visit. That day she had been so irritated from waiting on his doorstep that she scarcely noticed anything at all once she was finally inside. His rooms were similar in size and scope to Balin's, but furnished in a rather more spartan style. There was nothing ornate here, yet each piece seemed chosen for maximum comfort and ease of use. She felt immediately at home.

In the den, where Balin had maps on the walls, Dwalin had armaments. A staggering assortment of weapons of all styles surrounded her. Battle axes, mattocks, daggers, swords - the only thing missing was an orc mace. She gazed about the room, studying them each in turn. Although it would be pleasant to think the weapons were merely decorative, they showed distinct signs of wear that proved they had all been taken down from the wall a time or two.

Dwalin came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. "What do you think of it?"

"This room is rather less comfortable than the others," she said dryly as she gazed at the weaponry.

He laughed quietly and she felt the puffs of his breath on her neck. "It's meant to be." He slid one palm from her shoulder down her arm and tugged at her hand, drawing her away. "Come."

He ushered her to the dining room where a simple but hearty meal of meat and potatoes had been laid out. "This smells delicious," she said.

"Don't look so surprised. How do you think I've lived on my own for so long?"

"I can hardly imagine."

Gesturing for her to sit, he pulled a chair out for her and, after she was settled, placed a kiss on the crown of her head. Little butterflies set to flittering about inside her stomach as she remembered the larger purpose behind the meal.

Dwalin blessed the food, the first time she could remember him using Khûzdul in her presence. For a time they ate in relative silence. The food was good, though that fact shouldn't surprise her as much as it did. Even bachelors must eat.

After they each had finished a first helping, he finally spoke. "What do you hear from your father in the Iron Hills?" He seemed strangely formal, which had the odd effect of making her feel more at ease.

"Father and Mother are well." She took a drink of the strong red wine Dwalin had poured for them. "Father writes occasionally to let me know the news of the Hills. I think he, too, is saddened to see how it has dwindled. He has none to tend but the miners and a few residents too set in their ways to remove to Erebor."

"It's the same in the Blue Mountains." Dwalin laced his fingers together over his plate, his elbows resting on the table. "Dwarves will continue to make the journey to us until Thorin's Halls are nothing but empty caverns. I hate to leave any of our sacred homes so desolate."

"Maybe one day our numbers will grow so that we will have need of them again."

"Perhaps." His eyes sparkled in a way that made her remember his comment of the afternoon about having children. That was not precisely what she had meant.

"I'll clear all this away." He stood to collect the dishes, and she stood, too, picking up her plate and utensils.

"I'll help you."

He moved as though he would prevent her taking them to the kitchen. "It's not right."

"Are you so worried about custom?" She gave him an ill-mannered smirk. She had long been immune to concern for custom in matters where she might be of use, as Runa could attest.

"You're not going to leave it alone, are you?" His tone was defeated but she could see he didn't truly mind.

"It's only clearing away the dishes." She was already in the kitchen before the last words were out of her mouth. They shared the duty of bringing platters and bowls from the table before she filled a tub to clean them.

"I remember someone saying that _I_ was the obstinate one between us." He picked up a dishcloth and waited as she scrubbed the plates.

She passed a rinsed dish to him. "Maybe we both are. A little."

"Oh aye," he laughed, "a little."

Once all the dishes were washed and dried, they retired to the sitting room where they sat side by side on the settee. After all the time they'd spent together, she found it amusing that something so simple as quiet closeness could make her feel so suddenly awkward with him.

He apparently did not feel awkward. Taking her hand up in his, he gently caressed it. He was looking at her hand and not her face, for which she was grateful when her eyes briefly fluttered shut. His every touch brought pleasures that were entirely new to her.

"Is this the nice, slow winter you were thinking of?" he asked, and she laughed in spite of herself.

"I suppose it's something like." She frowned as she thought of that long-ago conversation in the infirmary. "Is it slow for you?"

He seemed perplexed by her question.

"I mean, have the orcs laid low? I've not tended any warriors in some time, but that doesn't necessarily mean there have been no altercations."

" _Altercations_ ," he repeated with a laugh. He continued to stroke her hand, which made it difficult for her to concentrate on his answer. "You and your impertinences and altercations. Aye, it has been slow. Orcs are generally less active in the winter months, though not always."

She must have looked too relieved, for he became suddenly serious. "There's a den of them, somewhere in the Greys. Come spring, we will search them out."

Whatever fears she had for his safety were overridden by her confidence in him, and she gave him a stout nod. "You will defeat them."

"Hmm," he grumbled. "I thought it would worry you." He looked her over. "I guess I shouldn't have been concerned about that."

He was being his usual gruff self, but she could see that he was genuinely hurt by her resolve. She wriggled herself underneath his arm and wrapped her own around him, pressing her cheek against his chest where she could hear his every breath as it rose and fell.

"I don't want you to go to battle. I hate the very idea. But would saying that change the fact that you must?"

"No. But it would be nice to hear, all the same."

She pressed herself away from him slightly so she could look him in the eye. "Then hear this, Dwalin. I love you. I don't want you to go to fight orcs. And I will fear for you when you go." She pressed her hand against his cheek. "But I know there is no dwarf stronger than you in all the Lonely Mountain. If anyone can walk into an orc stronghold and come out again, it's you."

He made a sound like a snort. "Flattery." She could see he was pleased, despite his dismissive attitude.

She lightly brushed her fingertips through his beard and leaned in closer to him. "If you didn't like stoicism, I thought perhaps you would like soft words."

"What I would like..." His voice faded to a rumble in his chest as he cupped her face in his hand. He pulled her to him and kissed her - soft at first, and then with a vigor that sent her mind reeling from desire. His hands moved over her body and although he did nothing overt, the sensations drove her excitement. Every spot on her body his hands touched felt in flames, every spot he didn't touch ached from the lack.

She trailed one hand from his shoulder along the neckline of his tunic until she reached its ties at his breastbone. Tucking her fingers underneath the fabric, she brushed the backs of them against his chest.

Dwalin groaned into her mouth and she kissed him all the harder. He moved slightly but her lips followed his. Finally, he broke the connection, breathing hard as he held her tightly in his arms. "In a moment, I won't want to stop myself." He pressed kisses to her cheek and temple. "I'm trying to do right by you."

She sighed and shifted to press her head against his shoulder. The deep breaths she took to calm herself did nothing when she heard his own ragged breathing and knew how much he wanted her. They remained so, each clinging to the other, for a long while.

When at last Lív thought she had herself pulled together, she asked, "Are _you_ worried about the orcs?"

He moved his hand in light circles over her shoulder. "I don't like that they're so close, but no, I'm not worried. We'll take them out once we know where they are."

"You'll go with the army then?" She knew the answer but asked the question anyway.

"Aye."

"You'll come back to me." It was not a question. Dwalin was the toughest, most deadly warrior in all the seven kingdoms. He would return.

"Aye, I'll come back to you." He pressed gentle kisses to the top of her head. "But now I must take you back to your chambers. It grows late, though Mahal knows I would rather spend the night with you."

She moved her head up to press her face against his neck, burrowing into his beard. "Why don't you?" she asked quietly. She blushed for her brazenness, but she longed to throw off all custom and stay with him.

"If I loved you less, I might." His words were gratifying, even in her disappointed desires. He laughed deep in his chest as he drew her closer into his embrace. "Soon we'll need a chaperone, for you can't put out a fire by adding more flame."

"I'm sure Balin would be happy to keep a watchful eye on us." She could imagine the cheeky winks and smug grins they would be made to endure.

This seemed to sober Dwalin. "Hmm. Far better to keep myself in check, as great a task as it may be. And so I must escort you home."

They were quiet as they returned to Lív's chambers arm in arm. The few dwarves they passed seemed uninterested in the display - the news of their courtship had already spread through the Mountain. She smiled shamelessly at the certain knowledge that Dwalin was courting her. If she could go back in time and tell herself such things on the night they first met, she would have found it absurd, to say the least.

At her doorway, Dwalin bid her farewell, embracing and kissing her in tender sweetness. He pressed his forehead to hers and whispered his love before departing. She watched his every last step until he was out of her sight.

Once she was tucked snug in her bed, she stared up at the dark ceiling and considered what life with Dwalin would be. The life of a warrior's wife was not always easy, but he was no ordinary warrior. A shard of pain shot through her as her thoughts suddenly turned to Runa's endless ache over the loss of her husband. She had been with Runa daily those first few weeks after the terrible news of Asgrim's death had come to the Iron Hills. She saw how her friend had shattered, fallen apart, and then slowly began to pick up the pieces of her life. Lív could hardly imagine how she would react if she were to receive such news of Dwalin.

She sighed, exasperated with herself. Had she not told Dwalin she wasn't worried for him? It was a brave front, but nothing more than a veneer. It was only natural she would worry over him each time he went to battle. He was her beloved.

Sleep had just overtaken her when she was woken by pounding at her chamber door. As she roused, her thoughts went to Inga and Bain, and the last time she had been summoned in the night. More than a month postpartum, Inga should be completely out of danger, but Bain - well, one never knew with newborns. Lív rushed through her rooms, steeling herself against whatever ill news had been brought to her.

Vestri was at the door, a look of panic on his face.

"We have to make ready. Erebor is under attack."

#

Dwalin stormed through his chambers as he prepared himself for battle. He quickly slipped into his stoutest shirt of mail and buckled a scale mail vest over it. He then strapped on his battle axes, checked all the daggers in his belt, and flexed his wrists, sending his gauntlets into action. He stopped briefly at the den for additional weapons but decided he would be lighter without.

The guard who had notified him of the orc attack had already run on, taking his message now to every warrior in the Mountain. The message had been simple enough - _We are under attack_. He cursed himself for not being more vigilant. Spies should have been sent throughout the Grey Mountains until the orcs were found, brutal cold be damned. It was only in hindsight one could see the best course of action, as he knew all too well.

He nearly ran to Dáin's council chambers, where the king was strapping his own weapons over his chest. Dáin's son, Thorin Stonehelm, was also fully armed, something Dwalin had not yet witnessed. Hanar was present and had apparently been in the middle of giving a report to Dáin.

"How did they get past our scouts?" Dáin bellowed at Dwalin. His flushed face and bright red beard made him a menace in his anger.

"The scouts are dead," Dwalin said simply. It was the only explanation for their lack of notice. That meant at least two dozen dwarves killed already on the mountainside. "What do we know?"

"The alarm was raised when the bonfires at Ravenhill went out." For all Hanar's his youth, he, at least, was composed. "The guards at the gate had just enough time to give a signal and secure the gates before the first waves arrived. Orc filth streamed to the gates, loosing arrows at the soldiers atop the wall."

As Dáin listened, he gripped his axe with such ferocity Dwalin might have thought he actually intended to fight. It was doubtful either Dáin or his son would step into the fray. They were not cowards, but a king and his heir did not often risk their lives together unless no other options remained.

"How many?" Dwalin asked.

Hanar shook his head. "The guards estimate several hundred, but the orcs carry no torches to give away their numbers. It could well be more. It doesn't matter, anyway."

"What did you say?" Dwalin wasn't about to give up just because they didn't know what they were up against.

"They've hemmed us in. Our soldiers can't get out the gates without giving entrance to the orcs. Even if we were to mass in the antechamber and open the main gates, we have no idea what we're facing. They could break through the secondary gates and enter the Mountain." Hanar paced about as he spoke, but he remained calm, which was more than could be said for Dáin. The king was furious at this turn of events and desperate for blood.

"We're trying to pick them off from the wall," Hanar said, "but we've already lost archers to the orc arrows."

This was grim. The city could last some time holed up in the Mountain, but that was not the way of dwarves - they must fight. None would come to their rescue, no matter how long they waited. There had to be another way out.

"We could use the side door." Dwalin said it almost as a whisper, more to himself than to his king, who had the ultimate say.

"The what?" Dáin stopped to stare at Dwalin.

"The secret door we used to enter Erebor." His mind spun as he worked out their situation.

"The orcs will be trying to gain entrance there, too," Thorin Stonehelm said.

"Why would they? They don't know it's there, they can't see it. The real question is how to get down the mountain unseen once we're out." It had been hard enough to get up during daylight - getting the army down in the dark of night risked life and limb of every warrior. Waiting for dawn would be no better, for they'd be seen, sure as death. They couldn't send everyone that way, it would never work.

Dwalin looked at Hanar and an idea began to form in his mind. What they needed was a distraction. It would be dangerous and tricky to undertake, but orcs weren't necessarily bright, and as far as he knew, these were leaderless. Even leaderless, they were a serious threat when they were out in force, as already evidenced by the dwarves who had lost their lives that night. There was no time to ponder their options.

He broke down his plan for the others, who initially scoffed, but eventually even Dáin saw that it was their best hope. They could not let themselves be trapped indefinitely by orcs.

Dáin clapped Dwalin on the shoulder. "You're either going to save the day, or kill us all."

Dwalin grimaced. "Good to know I have your confidence."

"Aye, lad, set to work, we've no time to spare."

Dwalin and Hanar left the council chambers to prepare the warriors for battle and set Dwalin's plan in motion. The idea of running full speed into combat against an unknown number of orcs made his battle fury start churning in his chest when suddenly his footsteps stopped dead in the corridor.

 _Lív_.

For the first time in four years, he would march into battle with a reason to march back out again.


	14. Chapter 14

Dwalin waited behind the sealed front gate, listening to the screeches of countless orcs on the other side. Every few minutes came the loud slam of a battering ram crashing into solid stone. He rested easy knowing the orcs would do nothing but tire themselves with such tactics - the front gate had been heavily fortified since Erebor had been retaken. It would not be breached by a mere log.

Behind Dwalin massed hundreds of warriors who were packed into the antechamber and the corridors beyond. High above, crouched below the sight line of the wall, were another hundred archers waiting for their signal. And somewhere, out in the night, were fifty dwarves with Hanar, making ready their distraction.

He hated waiting. It had not been easy to decide which group to join - should he fight here with the forces at the front line, or with the band that left by the side door? The front line was where he had always thrived, but the other group would face its own dangers. In the end, he decided his place was to lead the charge from the gates.

Memories from the last time he had charged into battle from Erebor's gates came back to him. He had not led then, but followed under Thorin's command. What he wouldn't give to do so again, but that was not to be in this life.

The soldiers were perfectly silent as they waited. He could not imagine that the orcs would have heard the army creep into the antechamber and onto the wall above when they made such unceasing racket themselves outside the gate. Even so, if anything went wrong, his plan would end in disaster, as Dáin had said.

He could not guess how long they waited, listening to nothing but the sounds of orcs trying to break down the gates. Finally came the sound he had been longing to hear - orcs shrieking in surprise and fear. The ground rumbled as the creatures scattered.

"Now!" Dwalin shouted up at the archers. As one, they stood and shot at the orcs that blocked the gate below, each grabbing a new arrow as soon as the last was loosed. In but a moment, the lead archer turned and his own signal was given. Dwalin and a few others strained to open the front gate. As the doors began to swing wide, he grabbed his axes and ran full-force at the fleeing orcs, shouting curses in Khûzdul as he went.

Orcs scrambled in every direction. On the slopes of Ravenhill, the warriors who had crept out the secret door launched flash-flame into the crowds of orcs. The creatures ran screaming in disorientation, apparently unable to make out where the threat was coming from. The diversion had worked, for a wide swath of the orc force had run to investigate the commotion. Dwalin only hoped his forces on Ravenhill would be enough to handle the orc onslaught when it arrived.

He took in all of this even before his first blow fell. Those creatures closest crushed towards him in their fury, but he created a path through them as his axes flew, cleaving his enemies in two. The archers on the wall also worked to clear the way as their arrows rained down upon the advancing orcs.

Flash-flame continued to explode among the orc army, sending pockets of them scrambling about. Hanar needed to change tactics quickly. It did nothing but disorient them and was likely wasting his force's time in the effort.

Dwalin could not think of Hanar and those on Ravenhill long before a grey orc loped up to him with a black, jagged sword in its hands. The orc made a show of raising the weapon over its head, and Dwalin took that opportunity to lodge an axe into the orc's ribcage. Even as he did so, he swung the other axe to split the stomach of a second advancing orc. A third did a double-take. The grin Dwalin wore in battle was more fearsome than any orc menace. He enjoyed what he did and he would not rest until his enemies were slain. The orc turned to flee but it was still within Dwalin's reach. It could not go far without its head.

Hundreds of orcs and dwarves fell upon each other before the gates of Erebor, a sight he had hoped never to see again. In the darkness, the sound of clashing iron echoed from all directions. He looked to Dale. Ordinarily, the pale flicker of the watchtower flames could be seen from Erebor even in the black of night, but he saw nothing now. Perhaps battle had come to Bard that night as well.

His thoughts were interrupted as a large orc carrying a brutal mace approached him. The orc shrieked its battle cry and he roared right back, accepting the challenge. The orc swung its mace in a steady circle as it advanced, the weapon whining as it arced in the air, and Dwalin had to fend off the blow with his axes. For a moment, all three weapons entangled together and the orc leaned towards Dwalin to sneer. Dwalin released his grip and swiftly brought one balled fist down upon the orc's head, crushing its skull in a single blow.

Losing himself in the battle rage was as easy as falling - there was nothing behind him, nothing before, only orc flesh to rend and split. Every other part of him gave way to this sole purpose of sending the foul creatures to their deaths. Time slipped and skidded by with every swing of his axe until the sky began to lighten with the dawn. They had flushed the orcs from the front gates, which were sealed again, and now all battled below Ravenhill. The orcs that yet remained were trying to reform their ranks and march in force on the gates once more.

Several set upon him at once. He fought with all his might, slaying them one by one. With so many upon him, he took a nasty hit to the side that surely cracked ribs. As pain seared through him, he lost his focus for the briefest moment. In that second, the last of the orcs surrounding him raised its sword for a killing blow. Dwalin turned to swing his axe when the orc collapsed, an arrow lodged in its head.

He looked up to see Bard, followed by the army of Dale, rushing upon the orcs. Bard nodded once to him before setting upon their mutual enemies. For a moment Dwalin's smile was genuine before it turned once more to a harbinger of orc doom.

#

Deep within the Mountain, Lív, Vestri, and the few others with training as healers prepared the infirmary to receive the wounded. Few reports of battle had reached them, but what little they did know was disheartening. Erebor was under siege by hundreds of orcs and the front gates were sealed. The dwarves were trapped.

She had little fear for herself as she ripped linens for wrappings and set water on to boil. The front gate was impenetrable - orcs reaching so far within Erebor was unheard of. No, her thoughts were with Dwalin, who soon would be in the thick of battle, if he were not already.

Óin had sought out further news of the situation and was now returned. "The residential levels are secured. None but the army are to go so far as the main corridor until we get the all clear. The front halls and entrance chambers are packed with soldiers. I've never seen the like."

"Dwalin?" It was a fool's hope that Óin might have heard word of him, but she couldn't help but ask.

He shook his head somberly.

Waiting in the quiet infirmary was enough to drive Lív mad. Hours crawled by with no report, no message of what occurred outside the Mountain. All within spoke in hushed tones, as though the battle could somehow be swayed by loud voices. She walked the aisle between the cots, rattling basins and instruments as she went to break up the awful silence.

Just after dawn, the first of the wounded stumbled into the healing rooms. Lív assessed injuries and directed the soldiers to cots before she began tending the worst off. The soldiers' injuries were of every sort and severity, giving her little indication of how the battle outside the front gate progressed. Surely the greatest threat had passed if the gates had been opened again.

Her hands were precise and gentle in their care, her demeanor calm. Yet in the back of her mind, she could not stop wondering where Dwalin was. Did he yet fight? If any orcs still drew breath, he would be in the middle of the fray. His place was in battle. She knew this, though she wanted nothing more than his safe return. As often as she could, she turned her gaze to the doorway, hoping for a glimpse of him. She saw many soldiers, but Dwalin was not among them.

Time seemed to stand still. She set bones, sewed flesh, and cleaned wounds, yet there was always another soldier waiting for her. As her worries increased, her expression set into a hard grimace. She likely made an unpleasant picture for the warriors she tended, but her mind was filled with unpleasant thoughts. She had little heart for giving or receiving empty encouragements when somewhere out there, Dwalin battled on.

She was surprised and heartened to see Men among the wounded who now found their way into the infirmary. They were tended to, just the same as the dwarves, though what had transpired outside that Men were involved in the fight was beyond her guess. She was determined to take it as a good sign.

The line of waiting soldiers dwindled away and she hoped this meant the fight, too, was dwindling, but still she heard nothing of Dwalin. She worked with no less skill or composure, but an icy fear seeped through her chest and sank like a stone in her stomach. Those already dead would not be taken to the healing rooms. Was Dwalin somewhere among those lying forever still? She could not bear to think it.

Óin approached as she tended a young man's injured leg. "I'll take it from here, lass."

"Thank you, but I can manage." She did not even look up at him as she cleaned the wound. If Dwalin could be strong on the battlefield, she could be strong in the healing rooms. Giving in to fear was not an option.

Óin placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I think you could use a rest." His eyes flickered from her to the doorway behind her. Understanding dawned on her and she slowly turned around.

By the great doors stood Dwalin, battered and bloody, but whole. The ice in her chest melted away and it was like she had come to life again. The grimace that had been etched into her features crumbled into a sigh of relief. She rushed through the aisle to him, where he met her with open arms. He was filthy with mud and thick, black orc blood, but she threw her arms around him all the same. Released from her worries, the tears that she had been holding back burst forth and she cried out her joy into his chest.

Dwalin stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. "I thought you weren't worried."

She laughed through her tears before hugging him tighter and kissing him on the mouth. He winced and she drew back. "Are you hurt?"

"A broken rib or two."

She let go her tight hold on him and gave him a quick once-over. He did seem to be favoring his left side, although if his ribs were broken he was surely in more pain than he let on. Her hands went to the armor there, where she found his scale mail was cruelly rent. Luckily the chain mail beneath had held.

"Finish seeing to the lads," he said gently. "I can wait."

With a fond smile and a kiss, Lív left him and went to treat the warriors who remained. The work flew by in a way the morning hours of waiting and worrying had not. When the last of the soldiers had been tended, bandaged, and either released or made comfortable in their bed, she returned to Dwalin.

Taking his hand, she led him to a waiting cot, where she helped him out of his layers of armor and mail, being careful of his injured side. After both layers of mail were removed, he sat on the cot in his shirt and protective leather vest. Her fingers went to the laces of his vest when she stopped. If removing his single gauntlet had set her heart to racing, it was nothing compared to what she experienced at this. He looked up at her from beneath his heavy brows with a wry grin - he knew what she was feeling.

"I think I'll get Óin to bind your broken ribs," she said.

His grin widened. "That might be for the best."

#

That night a feast was held in the Great Chamber of Thrór. For the first time in years uncounted, people of Men feasted and celebrated under the Mountain alongside dwarves. When the story had been told of the timely arrival of King Bard and his army, King Dáin had welcomed them with open arms. Bard had bridged the gap between the two kingdoms by joining his army with that of the dwarves, and Dáin, for his part, was willing to cast aside past grievances.

Though their losses were few, both kingdoms had suffered casualties in the day's battle, and those fallen warriors were honored with words and song. Bard and his men seemed reluctant to celebrate while the dead lay not yet buried, but dwarvish tradition held it was only fitting to celebrate victory alongside loss. Dwarves saw no shame in joy mixed with sorrow, for that was the nature of life itself.

Lív stayed close to Dwalin's side all evening. She didn't want him out of her sight for a moment, nor did he seem to want to leave it. She was with him as he visited his warriors, and listened as he commended them on various acts of bravery. He, himself, had not spoken of his own experience that day and she did not expect him to. Whatever his deeds, they were both great and terrible, and they were his alone unless he chose to share the tale.

King Bard approached them and bowed deeply. Though tired and dirty, he appeared uninjured. "That was quite a light show."

Dwalin merely shrugged his shoulders. "Turns out distractions do work on orcs. Is that what brought you?"

"Our scouts saw the bonfires at your watchtowers had gone out. I didn't think that was a good sign." Bard's mouth turned up in a subtle smirk.

Dwalin nodded. "That was our first clue, too. The filth decided to make one last attempt for Erebor, it seems."

"They did not have nearly enough numbers for that task."

"No, indeed." Dwalin seemed suddenly uncomfortable, tightening the arm he held around Lív as he cleared his throat. "Lad - _Bard -_ I owe you an apology. For - well, for too much." The words were sincere, though grudgingly said.

Bard looked bewildered, but inclined his head in acceptance all the same. "I thank you."

An awkward silence lingered a moment and Lív laughed inwardly at these two taciturn men exchanging fragments of conversation. They both needed someone else to draw them out, lest they fall back into brooding quiet.

"How fared the city of Dale, King Bard?" she asked.

"It is sound. We had enough warning to muster our armies and meet the orcs on the road, rather than let them reach Dale." Here he turned to Dwalin. "I have to commend Erebor's blacksmiths - these new blades are the finest any of us have ever used."

Dwalin seemed pleased by the praise. "Better than any crow bill or pike hook."

Bard grinned crookedly and nodded. "I cannot deny it."

"I hope your wife and son are well," Lív said.

The troubles of war faded from Bard's face and the smile he gave her was all softness. "They are. Bain is growing admirably. He'll be a right hearty little lad before long."

"I don't doubt it." Asking whether he'd held the baby yet sat on the tip of her tongue, but, under the circumstances, she thought it too impertinent to ask.

"No beard, though." Dwalin, however, was less concerned about impertinence.

Bard coughed a laugh. "Ah, no, I'm afraid we'll not see a beard on him for some time." A devilish grin slowly spread across his face as he looked at the two of them, their arms around each other's waists. "I see you are taking my advice."

Dwalin grumbled at her side, but Bard's eyes fairly sparkled as he looked meaningfully from him to Lív.

"I didn't need to be told, laddie." Dwalin's good humor had faded fast. It seemed their friendly banter would take time for him to grow accustomed to.

The return of Dwalin's surliness did nothing to mar Bard's amusement. He bowed again to Lív and briefly took her hand. "I believe my debt to you has been repaid." He winked before striding away.

She turned curious eyes on Dwalin, who was yet scowling at Bard's back as the man departed. "What does he mean?"

He looked as though he would say something ill of Bard, but then his expression grew tender as he turned his eyes on her. "You saved the lives of his family members, and now he has saved the life of yours."

Whatever fondness she had for Bard grew tenfold at this news. She wished for his return that she might thank him properly, albeit entirely too profusely.

"Only, I'm not your family. Not yet." Dwalin's face was deadly serious as he looked down at her, although his eyes were gentle. "I want you by my side, Lív. I want you for my wife."

Her grin grew even wider, if it were possible, and her chest felt filled with fireflies.

"I can't promise a smooth time of it - I'm not easy to live with." Dwalin continued on, his voice stern as though trying to talk her out of her choice. "I can be hard-headed and you've seen my temper isn't always in check -"

Lív placed one hand on his cheek. "None of that. I won't have you saying such things about my betrothed husband."

Dwalin's eyes glinted with satisfaction as a broad smile spread across his face. Though they were amid halls crowded with Dwarves and Men, he took her in his arms and kissed her as though he had no intention of ever not kissing her again.

#

Six months later, Dwalin prepared a blazing campfire as dusk fell. With their few necessities strapped to his back, he had led Lív to a secluded spot on the hillside just west of the gates of Erebor. They were close enough to the Mountain for safety, yet far enough to be assured of privacy.

As soon as spring had come, Erebor and Dale had joined forces to march on the Grey Mountains. The trek to find the orc hideout had been tedious, as Dale spent weeks sending a continuous run of scouts searching for evidence of orcs. Their efforts were eventually rewarded and the fledgling orc stronghold discovered.

The armies of Dwarves and Men had banded together and marched on the settlement in the Greys as one. The battle itself had been minor - most of the orcs' numbers had apparently been killed in their last attempt on Erebor. Still, the armies had scoured every nook and cranny in the cave and wiped them out to the last orc. Although some among both armies feared the possibility of new attacks from the south, for now Dwalin was satisfied that the threat to the north had finally been eliminated.

Now their kings had set aside their personal grudges, the situation between Erebor and Dale had changed for the better. The two kingdoms were allies in more than merely name - they fought, labored, and celebrated side by side. This, in turn, had advanced trade and already both kingdoms were seeing the benefits of cooperation, beginning with the restoration of Dale's walls. Bard still got under Dwalin's skin now and then, and the occasional barbs were tossed about between the two, but he guessed that would never change.

Once the fire was going, Dwalin turned to watch Lív. She had laid out their bedrolls and blankets and now stood with her hands on her hips, surveying their small camp.

"It's missing something," she said, a touch of a scowl on her face.

"Aye, it's missing a bed and four stout walls."

She gave him a playful look. "I thought you didn't mind sleeping out in the elements."

He stepped closer to wrap her up in his arms. "I've grown accustomed to a soft bed and a wife to warm it."

"I've spoiled you."

"Utterly."

Despite thinking himself ill-suited to ceremonial niceties, Dwalin could not forego his marriage ceremony, which had been performed the previous month. He had held Lív's hands in the center of the circle, surrounded by far too many family and friends. He would always remember how she had sparkled in the forest green dress he found so fetching on her.

After living one hundred seventy-three years as a bachelor, waiting those last five months to marry had seemed a burden. Once he had Lív's consent, he would have wed her straight away, but it was only proper to wait until her father and mother could arrive from the Iron Hills. Lív had suggested the possibility of marrying first, and notifying her parents after the fact, but in the end he knew she wanted and deserved to have her loved ones present for the ceremony.

If memory alone could bring the fallen new life, Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli would have stood in the circle that day alongside Balin and the others of the company. The lads would have given him no peace at finally settling down. If he'd ever guessed that he would do such a thing as marry, he would have wanted Thorin at a place of honor in the circle. Although that was not to be, he kept his memories of his friends close, and honored them for all they had been in his life. It was yet painful to think of them, but he could endure the bittersweet.

The ceremony could not have been brief enough for his taste. Though he still disliked pomp and circumstance, he had had no qualms about making his vows to care for, protect, and be faithful to Lív. It would be an easy task, and more than he deserved. He would be a fool to do anything less than make her his wife.

And so they had married. Standing before the campfire, he had a month of wedded bliss under his belt, and although he didn't act the fool like so many of the besotted did, his feelings were not lessened for having wed Lív. She brought something to his life he wouldn't have thought to go looking for, wouldn't have even known was missing, but now wouldn't live without for the world.

She placed her hand on his cheek. "What are you thinking of?"

He quirked one eyebrow. "I am alone in the wild with my wife. Can you not guess?"

She drew her fingers lightly through his beard, knowing what this did to him. "Perhaps that's all that I was missing."

She leaned up for a kiss and he was only too willing to return it. After a few minutes, he took her hand and they both lay down on the bedrolls. She snuggled up close to his side, her head upon his shoulder, and they looked up at the stars.

"Is this what you wanted?" He hugged her close, thinking of their conversations in Dale when she confessed her longing to sleep under the stars once more.

Propping herself up on one elbow, she looked him in the eye. "No. This is better." The gaze she cast on him was so full of love, he thought he could bask in it for the rest of his days.

And as it turned out, that's just what he did.

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Thank you for indulging me and reading along to the end of this story! It's a sentimental ending but one, I think, that this stoic hero deserves. Dwalin lived 100 years longer than the average dwarf lifespan - I didn't want him to live out those years alone. Thanks for reading!


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